


No Smooth Knees Nor Colourless Dreams

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Biker Greg Lestrade, Bikers Against Child Abuse, M/M, Motorcycles, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Mycroft Holmes does not make mistakes. He carefully assesses everything to the point of creating an almost treademarked brand of omniscience. But there are three things which have caught him unawares which he must address: A misinterpretation in his past, a love of motorcycles, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anyawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/gifts).



> "I am a member of Bikers Against Child Abuse. The die has been cast. The decision has been made. I have stepped over the line. I won't look back, let up, slow down, back away, or be still.My past has prepared me, my present makes sense, and my future is secure. I'm finished and done with low living, sight walking, small planning, smooth knees, colorless dreams, tamed visions, mundane talking, cheap giving, and dwarfed goals. I no longer need pre-eminence, prosperity, position, promotions, plaudits, or popularity. I don't have to be right, first, tops, recognized, praised, regarded, or rewarded. I now live by the faith in my works, and lean on the strength of my brothers and sisters. I love with patience, live by prayer, and labor with power. My fate is set, my gait is fast, my goal is the ultimate safety of children. My road is narrow, my way is rough, my companions are tried and true, my Guide is reliable, my mission is clear. I cannot be bought, compromised, detoured, lured away, turned back, deluded, or delayed. I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the presence of adversity, negotiate at the table of the enemy, ponder at the pool of popularity, or meander in the maze of mediocrity. I won't give up, shut up, let up, until I have stayed up, stored up, prayed up, paid up, and showed up for all wounded children. I must go until I drop, ride until I give out, and work till He stops me. And when He comes for His own, He will have no problem recognizing me, for He will see my B.A.C.A.® backpatch and know that I am one of His. I am a member of Bikers Against Child Abuse, and this is my creed."  
> Chief - Founder, B.A.C.A.®

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check out this amazing cover Bluebell made! https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776775

“You don’t look like I thought you would. And your riding partner doesn’t either.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Well, the jacket is right, but you haven’t got a long beard, like most of them. And you’re tall enough, I guess, but you’re not fat.”

Mycroft had poured over the case file long before deciding to ride out to Newham. Billy seemed so much like Sherlock in his answers to the case manager’s questions that he hadn’t thought he’d be able to take the assignment. Even his name had been too close for comfort. But he reminded himself that was the whole point of this venture, wasn’t it? 

Meeting him proves even more startling. The thick dark curls, the razor-sharp mind. But his eyes are not Sherlock’s piercing blue— they are a rich, deep brown which seem so dark as to appear nearly black at times. And, of course, Sherlock would never had called him too thin. Mycroft smiles. 

“We are all unique individuals. With a common purpose.”

“And that is?”

“That no child should be afraid of the world in which they live.”

Billy nods. Then after a moment he adds, “Maybe I just don’t feel like riding my bicycle.”

Mycroft nods back. “I can see why you might not. It’s a lot of pedaling, and you can’t go very fast. Would you like to ride with us? Just down the block. Your Mum can use a stopwatch and time how much faster it is than your bicycle.”

Billy examines the Harley with as much scrutiny as he had Mycroft.

“Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

It had taken Sherry Malik, director of Children’s Services at NSPCC, a few months before she had finally decided to contact the secretary of B.A.C.A.— a man who went only by the initial H.

It was her task to research new programs designed to help abused children, and although the article a friend of hers had sent over about the psychologist in the States who had created the organisation had impressed her with the group’s thoroughness, she still had her doubts. Even with all her research on the precautions members took to ensure the safety and well-being of children, it wasn’t until one of the NSY officers she had worked alongside during the latest sting laughed good-naturedly at her hesitation and told her of his early days roaming the countryside with his fellow bikers that she began to reconsider. A gang. A group. An organisation. What was the difference, anyway? If Officer Greg Lestrade, with his impeccable service record, and even more impeccable moral code, still rode with old biker friends from up North on the occasional week-end, well.... Greg had never heard of B.A.C.A. before Sherry had mentioned it. By the end of the month, he was a provisional member.

***

No one was more surprised to find himself going through motorcycle training than Mycroft Holmes. But the Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection Group required it, and there was no denying motorcycles responded far more quickly and nimbly to incidents than the DPG ARVs. They were a tactical advantage, and Mycroft was determined to become as skilled a rider as possible in service of Queen and Country. He practiced diligently with both the bikes and the sidearms, and within a month had rose to lead the PaDP team, choosing the route of the small caravan and radioing back with coordinates for the other team members. 

The lure of the open road, and nearly everything concerning motorcycling, had been both unexpected and thoroughly addictive. The solitude, the feeling of the wind in his hair in the moments he dared take off his helmet, the incomparable sense of freedom. Exhilarating was the only word which came close. There was nothing quite like it. Even Sherlock wouldn’t suspect he had a Harley tucked away in a storage lot walking distance from Pall Mall. What wasn’t unexpected was that he had joined B.A.C.A. as soon as it opened its UK Chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all chapters will be this short..promise


	3. Chapter 3

In no time at all, Mycroft made himself indispensable to the organization. Dozer, their president, knew Mycroft was... unique... when his international background check came back on the same day it had been submitted. He phoned Mycroft to question him about it. Mycroft had explained his “minor government position” required he maintain high levels of security, so...perhaps everything was simply in order?

Dozer was no stranger to expedited clearances; members came from all walks of life— professionals, blue collar workers, and everything in between. As he frequently told the reporters who had been paying increasing attention to them, ‘B.A.C.A. only discriminates against one kind of person- abusers’. But he had never seen anything quite like this. A background check on the Royal Family itself might have been slower. 

Everyone had the same entrance requirements... ride with the chapter for at least a year, be approved by unanimous vote, receive specialised training from a licensed mental health professional, and never be alone with a sponsored child. The last rule was an added safety precaution created by individuals who were well aware of predators worming their way into advocacy organizations— often from personal experience—but B.A.C.A. generally operated as a group in any case. When they showed up to patrol a frightened child’s block, it was usually in a pack of 50 or more riders. The sight always made Dozer smile. And if it was a situation where a child needed someone to talk to after waking up from a nightmare at 3 am, a pair of riders were dispatched. Riders who lived nearby and were a good fit for the child’s needs and personality. 

Mycroft was not anticipating ever being dispatched. He joined the group on those stakeout-style patrols where he generally took a daytime shift (he wrote his own schedule, after all— provided there was no imminent national crisis), as well as participated in larger, bi-annual rides which united riders from all over the UK. Right from the start, he felt certain his true impact would be behind the scenes. 

Shortly after his first year, he earned his reputation as a trusted trouble-shooter with a talent for anticipating issues before they even started. Their media representative, a Russian emigre, once called him Baba Vanga. He was grateful the moniker never stuck— after all, he hadn’t been given a roadname yet. There was no denying, however, that his insight bordered on omnipotence. Had the officers of B.A.C.A. had a less religious base, Mycroft might have earned the nickname “God”. It had been Mycroft who had convinced all of the chapters to do away with level three and four interventions— those involving canvassing the neighborhood and meeting the accused perpetrator face-to-face to convey their conviction that there was nothing they wouldn't do to protect a child. Mycroft believed this just opened the door to legal challenges, and assured the president there were more discrete forms of intimidation. Dozer knew better than to ask what those might be. All he knew was the methods were successful, and there had been no pending legal actions since Mycroft Holmes, known simply as ‘H’ for now, entered their service.

It hadn’t been Mycroft’s preference to be this secretive about his involvement. It was a private activity, yes, but certainly not one which caused him any embarrassment. If others knew, it likely would have earned him accolades, and perhaps a reputation as more...human. It wouldn’t even have been the oddest off-hours hobby amongst his MI6 teammates— after all, everyone knew Lady Smallwood marched with rhythm silks in local parades, a carryover from her years as an Olympic gymnast. But he kept it confidential, in the rapidly-fading hope that Sherlock might never find out.

His brother certainly had his eccentricities as well; a peek in his fridge would confirm that. Sherlock always had odd experiments lying about— even before he became a consulting detective, or whatever self-imposed title he had given himself, and therefore could claim some sort of justification for it. He was unconcerned about any degree of teasing Sherlock might dish out regarding how… unbikerly… Mycroft seemed. That was not the issue.

The issue was with the organisation.

Sherlock would be all-too-aware that Mycroft had not joined entirely out of civic-mindedness. Not even a little bit, if he were to be honest...and with Sherlock he had no choice but honesty. He had joined out of guilt.

***

John stood behind Sherlock’s chair and placed his hand lightly upon his shoulder as Mycroft and Sherlock continued to discuss how he has no intentions of taking the Merriford Case, then gave it a tight squeeze before stating, “I’m headed out now. That ok?”

Sherlock tilted his head back until it was resting upon the very top of the chair, gazing upward at John, elongating his neck. John regarded the pale expanse for a moment, then shifted his focus abruptly to his watch. 

“Oh, you mean… this?” Sherlock waved a vague hand in Mycroft’s direction. “No, go ahead. I’m fine.”

John left, and Sherlock gradually lowered his head until he saw Mycroft eye-to-eye once more. “Now where was I? Oh, _yes! Now_ I remember” He paused ever so slightly for dramatic effect. “No.”

“You two aren’t about to take a case overseas and elope, are you?”

“No danger of that. I don't wish to enter into that kind of relationship just yet.”

“You’re right to take some time to ascertain if John has worked through all his issues surrounding Mary’s death, and if he is worthy of that level of trust. But no one has been more attentive to his behaviour than I, and, I must admit I have seen no signs of unprocessed anger. In fact, you both seem...quite healthy. It is… almost disconcerting.”

“I agree. And that was not my area of concern. John has put in a great deal of time and effort, and it has been successful.”

“Sherlock, if you are concerned about,” Mycroft wrinkled his nose, “emotional intimacy...you and John have had that for many years now. I can’t see how it would be substantially different if it were to become more of a —“

“No. I mean a sexual relationship, specifically. There are a few things I want to examine more closely, now that I have additional information, before I…. Wait. How did I end up discussing my sex life with _you_? Don’t you have a case to go solve, since I won’t be doing it for you?”

“You're keeping something from me. What additional information?”

“Nothing important. John and I just, happened to be discussing definitions regarding sexuality and how they have shifted over time. Nothing new to you, I’d expect.”

“And nothing new to you either. You’ve never paid attention to anyone’s definitions except your own and have never been hesitant to discuss yours with anyone who dared ask your opinion on the matter. What is this ‘new’ information.”

“No new information. Again...how one defines a relationship, archaic concepts of virginity, what constitutes sex. That sort of thing. Nothing of interest to you. How long was Merriford floating for again?”

Mycroft’s brows knitted in thought as he mumbled to himself, “Not in the context of something with John. All of it would be sex as far as you are concerned, even acts which would only apply using the very broadest of definitions….”

“Mycroft…”

“Oh. Oh my g— When? Not Serbia? I would have gotten you out faster if I had—“

“No. No, you’re…. I’m fine. It was a long, long time ago and I am fine.”

“A long, long time ago. When you were a child?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t say anything to me. Which means this was someone I knew well and you didn’t think I’d…” Mycroft stopped for a moment, spoke softly and deliberately. “Was it Eurus?”

Sherlock blinked a moment. “I… I have to admit, I hadn’t…. No. At least I don’t believe so. That’s...it would be completely inappropriate for me to say that is a fascinating hypothesis, wouldn’t it? I will look into it. But. No. No one in the immediate family.”

“Which means extended family. Grandparents, aunts and...uncles.”

“No! I’ll not have you casting aspersions on every relative you think deviated form some preconceived mental image of propriety and, frankly you should be ashamed of yourself, Mycroft! Uncle Rudy was a wonderful human being. And the only reason I haven’t said anything so far, though I have no idea why I even should, seeing as it is largely insignificant in any case, is I can not remember her name! I only met her once and I— Julie...Jody...Jenny…?”

“Jamie? Cousin Jamie who moved to Wales?”

“How the hell would I know where she moved to? I saw her at someone’s wedding. I don’t know whose it was so don’t bother to ask. And I never saw her again. That she moved away makes sense, though she had no reason to avoid me. If anything, I was terrified of her. I was hardly about to say anything.”

“Jamie was two years older than me.”

“Yes. Jamie, then.”

“It must have been Aunt Melinda’s second wedding.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off.

“Yes, fine, good, Aunt Melinda’s wedding to Uncle...Edward. I was twelve, she was twenty-one, possibly twenty as it was a summer wedding and I have no idea when her birthday was relative to yours, so now that we have a name and a date can we stop this?”

“But Sherlock...I was there.”

“Of course. Everyone was there. It was a horrible, dreadfully dull family event and Daddy insisted everyone go support his sister’s second marriage and we were all there.”

“I don’t mean I wasn’t away at school. I mean, I was right there. Across from the bar. Watching her talking to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I assure you you weren’t observing all of our interaction.”

“That’s— that’s not what I meant, Sherlock! I didn’t mean to imply that nothing happened. I believe you. I absolutely believe you. I just… I must have saw it happening. The beginning. Watched her set it all up right in front of me.”

***

Mycroft had spent many months chastising himself for not having prevented it from ever happening. Had it been a stranger, someone middle-aged, a man, Mycroft would have certainly been on alert. But he had completely misread the interaction. Dismissed it. Had even… had even briefly thought how nice it was of her to befriend the boy off by himself at the gathering. He could close his eyes and still see it all falling into place:

Sherlock is at the open bar, sipping on a Coke, bored to death with it all and wondering when the reception will ever end when she sits down next to him. Mycroft can’t parse much of the conversation over the tacky dance music, just patches of it. Jamie seems about to rescue Sherlock from this wretched family obligation with some interesting conversation. Sherlock will at least have fun talking with her. She wasn’t well-thought-of amongst the rest of Daddy’s family. Unconventional. They were a rather conservative lot. That assessment is quickly confirmed when she orders a Rum and Coke and leans in conspiringly toward Sherlock. He leans backward and shakes his head, saying something in response. No, of course he wouldn’t have wanted to switch drinks— Sherlock has already tried alcohol and hadn’t much cared for it. Sherlock is looking around the room now, mentioning something to Jamie, pointing someone out on the sly. He’s helping her get a dance partner, most likely. She shakes her head and slides the barstool a bit closer in. 

That’s when the scene fades. 

Sherlock insisted it was ancient history, over and done with and not worth discussing, but it was clear this has left him with much to ponder... or, in his words, with ‘some things to think about’. Mycroft assumed those “things” to be how the experience had affected him. He didn’t know what happened next, told himself it was not his place to speculate. 

He did anyway. 

Relationships, archaic concepts of virginity, what constitutes sex. That Sherlock considered himself armed with new information was hardly a reason for concern, but he had implied a need to reconsider past events in light of it. Likely they had been discussing relationships...their own, perhaps? That was irrelevant. Whatever the catalyst, it had merely served to bring the matter to the forefront. No, discussing the nature of relationships was not the issue here. It was the next two items mentioned that had Mycroft concerned. Worried, actually.

Defining virginity. What constitutes sex.

The other day, Mycroft had been certain Sherlock was a virgin...in the broadest sense of the definition, not simply tied to any one arbitrary act. A sharp pain, so strong it actually made him flinch, hit his gut. He had openly mocked him about this. Surely that earned one a place in hell. To apologise at this stage would likely have made things worse; Sherlock had no use for sympathy derived from guilt. Did this reexamination mean Sherlock previously thought of himself as a virgin, but now realised perhaps he was not? Or that he thought he hadn’t been, but had now decided that he was?

The latter seemed the more empowering, if one could use such a term in this context, but it spoke to his past experience having been one of a far greater scope than mere…. Stupid. Stupid to try and assess what had happened, and even more stupid to assume one could attempt to place it upon some sort of matrix of psychological harm. Whatever it was, it had certainly been a blatantly sexual act if one used a more... mature… view of sexual activity as opposed to a child’s view.

A child. He pictured Sherlock at that age. Whatever occurred, Mycroft remained fairly confident it hadn’t been something Sherlock had somehow decided to test, or…. No. If his brother had even had so much as a fleeting crush at that age he had kept silent about it; Sherlock had not been what anyone would have termed interested, in anyone, in any sense. He’d seen Sherlock flirt in later years...exploiting his looks to get things like free candy floss at a faire. Still nothing one could term interest so much as unabashed manipulation. He felt distinctly uneasy now for having judged him harshly for such actions.

The other topic of conversation, what constituted “sex”, had initially worried him the most, for its implication of some form of experience with someone other than John when, up until that moment, he had been confident that even the very beginnings of a physical relationship with John had not yet manifested. It led Mycroft barreling to the conclusion neither of them had expected him to reach. But now that he had a bit more information to work with, it made him feel a bit more relieved. It meant whatever had occurred hadn’t obviously been...sex… as traditionally defined between men and women, at least. But Sherlock was reconsidering this. So, clearly it was… sexual, without having been…. Mycroft sighed. Since when had he become so prudish in his own mind? Since he had put sexual activities in the context of his twelve-year-old brother, that’s when. He shook his head. 

Mycroft had done research next. Quite a bit of it. The more he read, the more he felt frustrated that his initial instincts had been so off. Textbook errors. He had pushed for information when Sherlock was reluctant to have provided it, then used that information to make accusations with nothing to back them up but the worst sorts of prejudice. Then he had gone under the assumption that the act itself was somehow more significant in creating damage than the level of coercion involved. Than the loss of control. Even reframing a negative experience as a positive one was common amongst pre-teen boys and, sadly enough, amongst others they might speak with as well. 

Once more, he felt a need to channel his disappointment in himself into something productive. Sherlock wouldn't want anything from him, wouldn't need it. He had already spoken with John about this. Of that he was certain. Someone else might, though. Someone else he could help. He’d look into it. Right now he just needed to clear his head. The most effective way of doing that was hitting the open road. He closed his laptop and walked the five blocks to the Pall Mall garage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See. Told ya. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

The weather was perfect, and it would have been an ideal time to head to Box Hill, but Zig Zag Road would be swarming with cyclists today, and Mycroft needed solitude. Had he been a different person, he would have sought advice on an online rider’s board. Instead, he chose to head out into the country on whatever rural route caught his interest. He headed toward Windsor Castle.

It wasn’t an especially scenic route, but it had well-paved roads and a reasonably interesting final destination. The act of riding itself was calming, but Mycroft had not yet reached that motorcycle-zen state where it was all about the journey. Though, in glancing a the map in his mobile to check the timing, he was happily surprised that the route would take him past Runnymeade. 

Runnymede, or Ronimed inter Windlesoram et Stanes, as the books he kept on his study shelf called it, was where the Magna Carta was signed. It was no more than a vast field, and Mycroft suspected, with some disappointment, that countless people passed it every day without once thinking about the importance of that simple stretch of land in the establishment of their unique democracy. King John had ceded important liberties under an oak tree. Which one was impossible to determine… if memory served, several were old enough, majestic enough to have played host to such an event.

He had been there only once before, on a family holiday. Mycroft was not entirely certain why or when, but he can’t recall anyone having been in the back seat with him. He had to have been old enough to have persuaded his parents to take this more obscure route to whatever had been their ultimate destination—probably quite close to seven years old. Maybe Mummy had been pregnant with Sherlock. It would have been unlikely for Mycroft to have gone somewhere without siblings, except back to school, and that was east of their home, not due west—in Bury St Edmonds. Near the Abbey Gardens. Now that was a destination he was far more familiar with. Mummy loved her roses, and still does. And his experiences there proved to be the foundation which would have inspired him to have attempted, and apparently succeeded, in bringing the family to Runnymede. 

In 1214, the barons of England were believed to have met in the Abbey Church and made their oath to force King John to accept Henry I’s Coronation Charter— the document which preceded the Magna Carta. “Believed”, because the chronicler wrote his account several years later, and had a reputation for bending the truth and falsifying documents when it suited him. But to the people of Bury, there was no “believed” about it. It was a _fact_ the entire town was proud of, but especially the instructors at Mycroft’s school. The people of Bury St Edmunds have celebrated this link to history for hundreds of years; the town’s motto was ‘Shrine of the King, Cradle of the Law’, referring to ties to King Edmund and that baronial meeting which led directly to the creation of that crucial document at Runnymede the following year.

There had been a plaque, erected in 1849, which sat upon the piles of rubble that were actually ruined piers of the crossing of the ancient Abbey Church describing its history.

Mycroft adored them.

He had loved the ruins. Had walked amongst them, seeking out a singular spot where he could run his fingers along a section of the edifice and touch a small piece of stone that hadn’t made contact with a human hand since the 11th century. Yes, it was a childish notion, even to a seven-year old, that the crumbling structure would have somehow newly-exposed just a bit of mortar that hadn’t see the light of day for over a thousand years. Childish, but... magical. And that unbroken link to the past still enthralled Mycroft even now, in its own way. No longer in the sense that he could touch something untouched since its creation, but in his being a part of a chain of events from that time forward. Perhaps he’d travel back to that Bury abbey someday to see if his memory of the place had remained accurate, but for now he’d make do with Runnymede— a quite reasonable distance from his Vauxhall office.

***

The ride was pleasant, the sun shining down on his thick denim jacket, warming his shoulders, but the traffic left much to be desired. After Hammersmith, he grew frustrated with it and the distinct lack of solitude and headed south. The A3 seemed promising enough. Even then, he diverted to the A305, heading further south. Finally the route became increasingly verdant, passing through the small towns until he found himself on the A308. Passing a signpost, Mycroft shook his head, dismayed at his own sluggishness; they must have been attending an event at Eton, to have headed this way. Likely it was related to Mummy’s work, as he had no recollection of participating in an Eton event, though he remembered the journey. Mummy certainly would have taken him by Runnymede in that case. She always felt guilty about trips related to her maths work, and frequently attempted to turn them into some sort of family holiday. 

No one seemed to be headed this way today— no cyclists, no other bikers, and hardly any cars either, and the ones he saw seemed determined to arrive at their personal Point B as soon as possible. Mycroft moved to the center of the roadway. The roads here were exactly what he had hoped for. Far more rural, with the occasional cow debating joining the roadway, only to think better of it as the grass was particularly tasty right here, thank you very much.

It was while looking at a group of content cows that he spotted the perfectly round structure in a small clearing to the left of the road. He couldn't recall having ever seen it before. 

Looking closer, the building was definitely new— made from local, rammed earth to be reminiscent of ancient buildings— and it glowed gold in the late afternoon sun. It seemed just as rooted to the earth as the ancient trees which surrounded it. He rode up a narrow dirt path to investigate. A small sign at the entrance stated it was built by Mark Wallinger in 2018, measured in cubits, and the installation was titled “Writ in Water”. The allusion to Keats was appealing. As he stepped inside through a simple opening in the structure, more like a slot directly into the edifice, it lead to a circular hallway. One could travel widdershins or deosil. He chose the clockwise path along the curved interior corridor. It felt labyrinthine in its scope, but it quickly brought him to an annular space with a shallow pool at its centre and an unexpected patch of sky. The roof was a ringed oculus.

The pool itself was where the architect has abandoned his homage to the ancient world. Its edging was steel and, laser-cut into its curves, was Clause 39 of Magna Carta: “No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled, or deprived of his standing in any way, nor will we proceed with force against him, or send others to do so, except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land.” It was in mirror writing, only legible by gazing into the reflection on the surface of the water.

There was so much to think about, and Mycroft welcomed none of it. He sat in silence, attempting a clear mind, but the thoughts continued to swirl. Looking up at the sky was only moderately helpful, and the quote did provide a certain amount of distraction. So much of the course of history, the fate of the free world, had depended upon this unassuming field. But instead of feeling proud to be part of the continuation of that grand movement, it made him feel small, surprisingly inadequate measured against the greats of history. The emotions were just a carryover, easily recognisable in their origin. Of course he felt powerless and likely would for a while, at least. All he could do was sit with it, and wait. 

A group of motorcyclists drove by, temporarily marring the perfect silence, but it hadn't jolted him. It blended seamlessly into his contemplative mood, the sound soothing, for all its discord. It was time to get back on the road himself.


	5. Chapter 5

It was growing dark, and Mycroft was weary enough to have wanted nothing more than as good book and his comfortable bed. Windsor would have to wait. He headed for home. This had been..an interesting diversion. He made his return trip, the setting sun at his back, and it coloured the entire sky a delicate rose with streaks of gold on the edges of the clouds. A golden lining. He managed a wry smile.

He was alone in the growing darkness, and he pulled to the side of the road to take his helmet off. Just for a short while, To feel the wind on this empty stretch of straight road. It was too rural to employ cameras, like on the M5. Not that there isn’t monitoring on some rural routes, but Mycroft knew them all.

He heard them before he saw them, then suddenly up ahead, he could just make out a group of riders. Likely the ones who had passed him before in his contemplation. They numbered about ten. He felt a surge of adrenaline. This wasn’t a large gang by any means but it still was no group of friends on a casual ride. As officials claimed most motorcycle clubs were just enthusiasts and only one percent caused any trouble, the groups that sought trouble out referred to themselves as One-Percenters. The Hells Angels, The Outlaws, The Pagans, The Outcasts. He knows there is generally trouble only when rival gangs meet, but, he was on alert and strained to make out whether the patches on their jackets were two distinct pieces or one large patch. The dual patches are a mark of the outlaw gangs. The single patches are...not. 

Most were riding without helmets, which gave Mycroft cause for concern, until he remembered that he too was riding without a helmet at the moment. The members at the back of the caravan had a single patch. Mycroft was relieved. It was an attempt at a rather intimidating one: a fist with a skull over the index finger, but it seemed almost comical now. A group of wannabe outlaws. Law-abiding citizens who spent the weekend pretending that they weren’t. He reved up to pass them.

As he moved forward, he noticed something odd. In the middle of the configuration was a blonde woman holding on a bit too tightly to the rider. She stood out, not because she was a woman, or even because of her long blonde hair, which stuck out awkwardly from beneath her helmet— though the other women scattered throughout the group appeared to have had theirs pulled back. No, it was that she was not wearing a patched jacket. She was riding with this group in the very centre of them, as if she were precious cargo. And to her left he could just make out another passenger in the formation. A young girl, possibly 10 years old. She _was_ wearing a jacket. A miniature version of the one the burly men directly surrounding her were wearing. He slowed down to get a closer look. As he did so, a rider pulled out of formation to travel alongside him.

“Do you know of a good restaurant nearby?” shouted the man over the din, slowly, and in heavily-accented English. Mycroft immediately recognised the accent as Dutch, and as he glanced at the group once more he spotted the letters on the jacket: ‘B.A.C.A. Dutch West Chapter’. In English. Strange. 

Mycroft spoke to him in Dutch, recommending a restaurant a few miles up the road where the girl wouldn’t feel out of place. The surprised man smiled, thanked him, and the group picked up speed. Mycroft pulled over to let them pass, put his helmet back on, and rejoined the roadway.

The rest of the ride was uneventful and relaxing. Though he was still tired, his mind had something to fixate on. The group was clearly escorting the woman and child. They were not riders, and judging by the woman’s iron grip they were not accustomed to being passengers either. The girl seemed completely at ease, however. Acting as if she were part of the club and had been for some time. The condition of the jacket led him to deduce she had been a part of their “family” for over a year. Long enough for it to have been washed a fair amount and for her arms to have outgrown the sleeves slightly. This was clearly a small contingent of a far larger group. From the looks of it, they were comprised entirely of Dutch natives setting up one of their own in England. Not all of them made the journey, but some dedicated members had. This was no holiday; this was serious business. They were escorting the two in much the same way he would escort a visiting diplomat. 

The patches were confusing. That they were in English could only mean they were the Dutch wing of a British organisation, but if so, where were their British brethren? He toyed with different acronyms, and got as far as assuming the first initial stood for Bikers, but even that was suspect. The final A was likely Association. Well, he would just look it up when he got back home. It wasn’t very long now.


	6. Chapter 6

The A wasn’t for Association.

The organisation, Bikers Against Child Abuse, was an American one, so that explained why the Dutch group had English acronyms. There was no British chapter. Yet.

There was, however, quite a bit of chatter about establishing one. Mycroft read about it with increasing interest. The organisation seemed quite legitimate, founded by an American psychologist. As to whether or not the organisational founders were trustworthy, he’d put Anthea on the case. No one could scour the web with as much skill. If they met his scrutiny, and were looking for funding, or some larger degree of sponsorship, that could easily be arranged. Children’s Services at NSPCC, for instance. He looked at a few more articles, some uploaded videos of rides, some accounts from families. Hours had passed and he was still seeking out new bits of information. It was no longer necessary to contact Anthea. He knew all he needed to know to test their legitimacy, and he was still seeking out more details. 

He wanted to join them.

He poured himself some scotch and sat at his table. Joining the group was pointless. He was an intimidating presence in many ways, but...not like the men featured in the videos. And besides, why would he really be doing this? Perhaps he should just make a charitable contribution in order to… To do what, exactly? Since when was he interested in joining any type of social organisation, nevermind helping found one? Was this just a matter of alleviating his guilt? Most likely, yes. Was that a bad thing? One judges the tree by its fruit, after all.

It would take some time for the group to get established. If he still felt this strongly about it by then, he would look into joining. Perhaps. In the meantime a few false usernames and anonymous suggestions wouldn't go amiss.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft expected at any moment Sherlock would find out he had joined BACA and would likely be annoyed. It would seem all too clear to Sherlock that Mycroft was trying to rewrite the past somehow. The knowledge that he was being self-serving, that he was seeking only to alleviate his guilt— impossible as that would be— grated at him and be had become a walking list of negative rationales. Mycroft had stolen the focus away from Sherlock, made it all about him somehow, and the things he didn’t prevent. Sometimes, Mycroft even admitted to himself he had been selfish enough to have wished he had been away at Uni when it had happened. Those were the moments he dreaded reliving. 

It was true that riding made it better, but not because he was serving some noble purpose. It was simply the act of getting on his bike and going somewhere. It was every single cliche he had ever heard about it. It was freedom.

The organisation was thriving now. He was no longer a behind the scenes contributor, but a fledgling member, waiting on his one year anniversary and finding himself eager to participate. When he was riding with the club, he felt as if what he did with the rest of his time was truly irrelevant. Not a single person had asked. It was wonderful, in a way. Not that he hadn't worked ridiculously hard to get to where he was. Not that he wasn’t fiercely proud of his service and his accomplishments. But...no one found him...unapproachable. It was an odd term to use, certainly, but, he had no other to address the feeling he had lived with for years, that detachment from humanity. And now that he was able to isolate it, to define it, to consider if it still had a purpose, it was quietly eroding.

If Sherlock had known about the biker’s club, he hadn’t said anything for a full year.

It was upon the occasion of his confirmation as secretary that he received a package in the post containing a box wrapped in grey paper with fine black pinstriping and a note. He pushed the package aside to read the message.

_I have been forced to conclude that you do not own a proper riding jacket, as there is no way to remove the scent of full grain leather without covering it up with another one which is even more powerful. I think it is past time for you to have one, don’t you? Congratulations on your appointment. -S_

Mycroft opened the package carefully and found a protective cotton drawstring bag. Within it was a stunning black leather jacket with a subtle...not quite a shine, more like a gleam… a gleam which spoke of fine conditioner and buffing cloths. The scent lacked the usual warmth of leather and the pungent odor made it clear it had just been treated. He held it up and stared at it for a moment, wondering how a single article of clothing could manage to convey both grit and elegance. It was soft enough to the touch to have been lamb leather, but as he ran his fingers over the hide he noticed the fine lines on the surface. Range marks from the grazing cattle. It was far more durable than it had looked at first. A real biker jacket then. He wondered where Sherlock had gotten it—it had no designer label. Likely custom. 

The front had a few small gunmetal zippers which zagged across it at the pockets, and the back was cut narrowly and perfectly smooth at the spot where he would mount the riding colors he had kept hidden in a drawer ever since receiving full membership. He took the single large patch out and lay it flat across the back. As he smoothed it out he noticed the black stitching, barely visible at first upon the black leather, but elegantly embroidered along the wide, buckled waistband read “No child deserves to live in fear.” He stared at it, fought the tears, and lost the battle.


	8. Chapter 8

Billy’s mum, Mandy, did not expect him to show the least bit of interest in motorcycles. While the other boys were playing with toy cars and trucks, Billy had become obsessed with foreign languages. He had watched video after video in Russian on their laptop and, following a week of intensive study, had conversed with an elderly woman on a park bench about— well, she had guessed it had been about pigeons. She had no idea, really. Billy had told her on the walk home that in Minsk people would catch pigeons and eat them. Mandy hoped her disgust at the notion of eating those filthy rats with wings didn’t look like disapproval to Billy for his having had such a discussion. Motorcycles. There was no way her son would want anything to do with the greasy, noisy things.

Last week she had dutifully asked him if he was interested in ever riding on one, and he responded with an enthusiastic yes and plunged himself into researching how combustion engines worked and the physics of leaning into turns. The next morning, he regaled her with the social history of outlaw gangs, and when she offered to take him to the playground that afternoon he rounded up all the younger children and they played ‘motorcycle gang’ instead of the usual versions of cops and robbers or pirates. The other parents saw no difference, but she worried. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

He had been doing a bit better lately. His grades were climbing back up, but then again Billy often fooled her into thinking he was handling all this far better than he actually was. That façade came crashing down on the nights when he refused to sleep unless she was there beside him. After yet another night when he refused to sleep until his body finally surrendered some time in the late afternoon, she had finally returned the follow up call from his case manager. Ms Burnham assured her BACA had someone for every child. That seemed doubtful, but on days like this, weeks like this, anyone in his corner would be helpful, right?

This morning, she received a small parcel from NSPCC Director of Children’s Services Sherry Malik stating that in a little over a week she would be assigned ‘H’— what H stood for she had no idea—and ‘Din’ with BACA. There was an enclosed pamphlet about the selection and training of these volunteers. She put that aside; she had already asked Ms Burnham every question about the process she could think of after having turned in her end of the paperwork and a personal assessment of Billy’s needs and interests. The BACA representatives would meet with them at a location of her choosing. There would be no attempt to push the club on any child. They could decide if they wanted to ride, if they wanted to wear the vest or patches, if they wanted to quit the program altogether. Members of the group would take the child for rides around their own neighborhood. They would attend legal proceedings if requested...either outside the courthouse or in the courtroom itself based on the family’s individual needs. Each child got to select their own road name and was assigned two BACA members who not only lived nearby, but were a good match personality-wise. H had been with the organization since its earliest days, during the formation the London chapter. Din was newer, but had a great deal of professional experience. 

It all seemed highly-tailored to the level they needed. Mandy wasn’t sure what level that would be, but, it seemed worth a try. The case manager had made a good point— there simply were not enough social workers, and even if there were, they couldn't do things like respond to a child’s 3 am nightmare. And these riders would. Every time. And stick around as long as they were needed in shifts and show up at the trial and block perpetrators from view. His perpetrator. The trial. He’d need them.

She thought it over and decided they should meet with Billy outside the school, just as it let out. 

***

Billy’s mum handed him a package which had only his name on it. That never happened. He was excited, but still somehow managed to slow himself down long enough to examine it carefully before opening it. Inside was a motorcycle vest made of black vinyl, and a patch wrapped in plastic with a peel-off label on the back. There was also a small envelope inside. Billy read it. It said much the same thing as the one his mum had already shared with him: H and Din would meet him next week. It was nice of them to send one to him separately, even if he already knew all about it from Mum. She had added that his classmates would see him with them after school. Sweet.

Billy told his mom he figured the H stood for an inappropriate word...something like Hell..and they had changed it to just H because he was a kid. After all he’d been through, worrying about something like bad language seemed kind of funny. But at the same time, it made him feel like a regular kid. Well, made him feel just a little less like he wasn't one anymore. He tried to tell his mum about that, once—the sense of missing out on his childhood—but he guessed he didn't use the right words, because when he had tried she just cried and said, ‘I feel that way, too’. He didn’t mean to make her feel bad. Billy removed the vest from the package and smoothed it out on the kitchen table. He flipped it over, unwrapped the patch, peeled the paper backing off, and carefully lined it up before pressing it into place. He slipped it on, running his hands over the material confidently, as if it were made of medieval chain mail which made him nigh invulnerable. 

***

Mycroft received a letter confirming his initial meeting with Din and then afterward they would both travel together to see Billy. He wasn't sure which meeting unnerved him more. He decided it was Din. They were to be working together...what if Din wanted nothing to do with him? Din had a proper road name, after all. Was probably an experienced rider, not someone who had found his way in through civil service, of all things. 

Mycroft went to BACA headquarters, typed in his access code, and tried to find out what he could about his new partner. The records were sealed. That could mean many things— from government work, much like Mycroft himself, to a witness protection program for an ex gang member. Each possibility he considered seemed unlikely in a different way. He would have to trust in the fact that they had a common objective—making Billy feel safe— which would override any personality conflict. It would make sense to have paired off Mycroft with a very large, very intimidating man. For balance.

He reread the letter searching for any helpful insights. They were set to meet at a roadhouse near Billy’s house for about an hour prior to meeting him at his home. No, not his home, his school. Mycroft smiled. Now that was good thinking. No better way to get other kids on your side than to let them congregate round a motorcycle, then watch you ride off on it. Whoever had chosen that location, he decided he liked them a lot. Din... he wasn’t so sure about. But he’d find out next week.

***

Din saw the letter with the return address from Children’s Services poking out of his black plastic inbox and smiled. Well, Marjorie Burnham had finally talked her round, then. He was thrilled to finally meet Billy. Seemed like quite the kid. He put his feet up on his desk and opened it. A few sentences in and he froze. He’d be working with H. Everyone knew H. And no one knew H. One of the founders of the London chapter, he sort of had a legendary status to the point where he almost seemed mythical. Din smiled. He’d be meeting him in the flesh soon enough. 

Roadhouse, schoolyard, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He hardly ever got the chance to be intimidating anymore. It was all paperwork now, and soon he’d have the opportunity to play a part that was still very much within himself, though one he felt he had lost touch with long ago. A biker bar, and showing off in front of some easily impressionable kids. But after...after, he’d be doing a bit of good for someone who truly needed him. He couldn’t wait til next week.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft checked his watch again. His partner was late. He’d seen many men and quite a few women pull up to the roadhouse, some glancing over at him, some not— all walking in to meet someone else. Except one who presumably needed to use the loo since he came right back out again, and another who only stopped to ask for directions. Mycroft watched as yet another one pulled up.

Now _that_ was how you should look on a bike.

Everything about this rider spoke to confidence. Mycroft could only project that with the assistance of an immaculately cut suit. Not that it was the clothes that made the man in the stranger’s case. It was his bearing. He could be standing there completely nude and he would still have that same cockiness about him, though there was no denying the faded jeans and leather jacket seemed to bring that out all the more. The jacket that spanned his shoulders flawlessly was rugged and well-worn. 

Mycroft loved his jacket, truly loved it, but it still seemed rather… new. He felt rather new. Well, he _was_ rather new, wasn’t he? And Mycroft still wore his like a freshly-pressed uniform: it was sleek and tailored, and god knows how much it’d cost. The rider’s was similarly well-made, but well-made in the sense that it was stitched together many years ago, back when things were built to last. He wore it like a second skin. A part of him. As if it was something he put on to relax, rather than took off. That… Well. He was imagining the rider taking it off anyway. And his shirt along with it. Apparently Mycroft’s brain had been running on two separate tracks ever since he had had the passing thought that the stranger could just as easily be standing there nude. Surely he couldn’t tell... or could he? The way he swung his leg around the bike to dismount seemed almost like a display. Mycroft attempting to convince himself to turn away when the man spun around needlessly, giving him a lovely view of his arse as well as the back of his jacket. Which had a BACA patch. 

So. This is Din.

So much for auspicious beginnings. Din would have to be dense indeed not to have noticed Mycroft checking him out as he dismounted, supposing that he had, for some unfathomable reason, missed the previous five minutes solid of blatant staring. Din didn’t seem concerned in the least, however, and while his back was still turned Mycroft attempted a rather hasty character assessment. 

He wasn’t built like a tank at all, though he was solid. A man who had been athletic in the past and had maintained that basic body type as he aged— though he wasn’t making it to the gym as often as he hoped anymore, which spoke to other commitments. Still facing away, Din took off his helmet and gave his silver-strewn hair an instinctual shake before running his hand through it, as if for a brief moment he had forgotten it was too short to simply toss into place. 

It was a show. Mycroft had rarely been given anything resembling a show, but the staging was undeniable. Din turned around slowly, pivoting in his worn, leather boots which were even older than the jacket and faced Mycroft, smiling. 

“So, did you know we’d be teamed up right from the start? Because frankly, I had no idea until I rode up,” Lestrade chuckled. “H has a reputation for knowing everything. All makes sense now. I just...never thought that…”

Mycroft quickly hid his shock and embarrassment at having unknowingly ogled Detective Inspector Lestrade for a good ten minutes by shifting the topic to one which was far more familiar— strategic self-deprecation. “You’re about to say I didn’t seem the type.”

“No, I was going to say I never thought you’d have the time to do anything outside of work.”

“I’m always at work. Part of my brain is always processing raw data, waiting for the pieces to align correctly. Some of my best solutions have come about when I am away from the office, in all honesty.”

“Always something in the oven. Me too, actually. And...anyone can be ‘the type’. I just feel sorry for the ones who _are_ the type and still never get to actually ride, you know?” Lestrade’s helmet found a comfortable indentation alongside his waist and he slung his arm over it to hold it in place as he slipped his hand in his front jeans pocket, which hung low on his hips.

Mycroft swallowed. He’d have to get half of his mind to switch gears. It didn’t want to. He’d seen Lestrade quite a few times and never had he...never had he permitted himself to have a reaction like this. “I started only recently,” he said.

“Guard patrol?”

Mycroft had a new reason to examine him carefully now. Sherlock was always going on about how Lestrade missed things, but that wasn’t the case; he simply took the extra time to do things correctly. Sherlock could afford to spout off deductions, sometimes right in front of the suspect. Lestrade...Greg...would have to ensure everything was done properly to make every charge stick. There was a degree of respect that was worthy of which Sherlock never seemed to have developed. The precision required was admirable. But Greg did not seem an especially precise person by nature. Which meant he really cared about what he did. Passionately. 

Mycroft nodded. Then he gestured with his head for them to go inside.

Lestrade grabbed a free table near the back. “So how did you get involved with BACA? I mean, I work with social services a lot, do a lot of referrals, but… I don’t know anyone in it who doesn’t have a more personal connection.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“Otherwise they’d just, you know, write a check.” Lestrade leaned forward, resting his elbows on the rickety wooden table.

“Just a moment,” Mycroft replied.

Lestrade pulled himself up to a proper sitting position. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, no, I intend to. But...a moment, please. I’ll be right back.”

Mycroft left the table, pushing his chair back in, and headed straight outside. He paced for a moment and wiped his brow before finally leaning against a rustic picnic table and pulling out his mobile. 

“Did you know about this?”

“About what?”

“Stop it, Sherlock. You know exactly what I mean.”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “Is this where I am supposed to warn you not to get involved?”

“Very funny.”

“He’s your partner?”

“Apparently so.”

“No. I didn’t. I knew he was in the organization, of course. He’s rather proud of that fact. He has a membership plaque on his desk. Do you have one, too? On the desk in your... bunker?”

“You are in stellar form today.”

“I thought it was a possibility, seeing as any child you’d be assigned to would probably prefer both of his riders be...well, if not a bit less reckless at least able to contain that aspect. But if that was all you wanted to know you wouldn't be calling me in the middle of your meeting. You’d be grilling me about it afterward.”

“He wants to know why I joined.”

“And why _did_ you join, Mycroft?”

The silence was broken as Mycroft sighed. “It is not my place to discuss certain things. They did not happen to me.”

“But they did affect you on some level. Case in point. You are now a well-respected member of a prominent international organization. One that _doesn’t_ start wars and have people surreptitiously executed.”

“It is not my story to tell.”

“Then by all means, sidestep the issue. If you think you can casually say ‘a family member’ and it wouldn’t be obvious to the brightest of a rather dim lot that that family member is me, particularly after you _left to check_ , then it is you who is sorely lacking in perception. If what you want here is my permission, it’s yours. Say what you want to say. What you need to say that you haven't. Just… If he gets the impression that this explains anything about the state I was in when he and I met, I would appreciate your correcting that misconception. My drug abuse was a Byzantine mosaic of causal factors. I am not, in the end, quite so obvious. Now get back out there before he’s convinced it’s you and he invaded your privacy by asking.”

Mycroft headed back into the roadhouse.

“Look, Mycroft, I… I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I was just, trying to strike up a conversation based on some degree of common—”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Okay. But still, you don’t—“

“But it is someone you know, so, I felt obligated to keep confidentiality. If it was requested. As it turns out, his life has become an open book lately. Emotions tumbling out like a… like a...”

“Like a rigged medicine cabinet.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s the best analogy I can think of at the moment. When you are having someone visiting and you don’t want them to go snooping through your stuff, so you fill your medicine cabinet with marbles and if someone opens it—“

“Marbles spill out all over the bathroom floor. Interesting.”

“Of course, there are perfectly valid reasons for going into a medicine cabinet that don’t involve spying. Like when your sister asks you to feed your cat and the cat doesn't like you and decides to express herself by slicing open your hand.”

Mycroft attempted to straighten his posture, though it proved difficult on a rotating bar stool. He momentarily lost his balance, but corrected quickly. “A lovely attempt at distraction. But we don’t have to forget you asked. Sherlock’s only request was that you don’t make assumptions regarding cause and effect.”

Lestrade took it all in for a moment, then frowned. “I’m disappointed that he would think so little of me. No. What am I saying? This is Sherlock. He thinks very little of everybody. Still insulted though. People of every possible sexual identity have experienced that. While it’s understandable for a person to,” he searched for words, “To question themselves, in light of the experience, the fact that every type of survivor exists is proof enough that—“

“Oh. Oh no. Not that effect. He was referring to his drug use.”

“Well. That was, unnecessarily awkward.” Lestrade looked around the dimly-lit bar for a waitress.

“Sherlock doesn’t _do_ orientation. We stopped discussing it quite some time ago and agreed to disagree. I’ve been gay as long as I can remember. He thinks identifying one way or the other is some sort of unnecessary... nod to conformity. It never seemed unnecessary to me. I found it a simple and powerful acknowledgement of truth, a statement of fact. Letting others know has been a ...more recent development. But as far as an _internal_ designation...well...that has nearly always been there. And has always been helpful. Government work has been far more accepting in the last few years.”

Lestrade nodded. “Police work, not so much. I mean, I don’t hide, but I don’t disclose either. I let people make their assumptions about me. To correct them seems like it would place too much emphasis on my sex life.” He humphed. “Hah. As if I had one.”

Mycroft sat quietly. Too quietly.

“What? You know _everything!_ You mean to tell me you didn't know _that_?”

“Well...matters of self-definition are, by their very nature, private things, which can not be—”

“Was the wife, wan’t it?” Lestrade held up two fingers at a passing waitress who smiled at him and nodded. The drinks menu was, limited.

Mycroft started to reply but Lestrade cut him off. 

“I wear bi colours on Coming Out Day. I go to Pride events every year. Back when I was on the beat, a long time ago, as you know, I walked alongside the route in uniform with a rainbow pin. It was important to me to be able to show that queer cops even existed. To integrate every part of who I am. And people then and people today did the exact same thing. They thanked me for being supportive. Supportive, hell! I’m bisexual and have been for,” Lestrade stopped to think, “For 30 years. No, 29. One year I thought I was gay. But I was wrong. So, 30 years it is, then. 30 fucking years. College romances, then got married...off the market for quite a while. Now that I’m free, I feel like restoring that balance a bit, but instead I’m so far removed from the dating scene that I wouldn’t even know how to start. And I got to hear your brother bragging about clubbing and coloured underwear so I told him he wouldn't know a gay man if he quite literally bit him on the arse and he winked at me and said, ‘Pretty sure I would,’ and that’s the closest thing I have had to a date in years.” 

The waitress came over, placed two beers on the table, and darted off. 

“I bet you don’t date either,” he continued. “What do you do...go to some exclusive private club and pretend it’s still the 1920s?”

Mycroft decided not to address the uncannily accurate assessment of his monthly dinner club meetings. “I don’t date either. We could, not date, together sometime. If you wanted. Gregory.”

“Name’s not Gregory.”

“I didn't mean to presume. I suppose I have a tendency toward formality.”

“It’s Grigor. Technically. It’s a Welsh name. Most documents I’ve got from the academy are ‘G Lestrade’. I can’t stomach Grigor—makes me feel like I’m in a bad version of Frankenstein—and as Gregory is not my name, let’s keep it at Greg, yeah?”

“Of course. Apologies, Greg. Or should I use Din, in this situation?”

“With Billy, Din is better. And by the way, H is probably the worst roadname I have ever heard.”

“That would be because it’s not a roadname. I started in administration. It is an excellent way to sign documents. I have no roadname. Din is, appropriate.”

“Well it’s…. You don’t know how I got it, do you?”

“No, I admit, I don’t.”

“You know how someone gets named something like Killer, and it’s because they have killer puns, or like Tiger and you find out it’s because they slept with a stuffed tiger in uni, or something like that?” Greg gave him a half-smile which hid some lingering embarrassment.

Mycroft nodded. “You were in a garage band in your youth? One anti-authoritarian enough to make you want to disavow the experience?”

“I was. We were, And I don’t feel the need to disavow anything. But that isn’t it. Has nothing to do with noise.”

“Well then. I’ve no idea.”

“It’s D-etective In-spector. Din. Dozer thought it was hilarious.” Greg took a drink. “And you prefer Mycroft. When you aren’t H, that is. No nicknames?”

“There are...variations. If anyone actually used them, it would turn heads.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. In case I want to turn heads.”

“There are many ways in which you are capable of turning heads, Greg.”

Greg gestured toward Mycroft with his beer bottle and smiled. “See. I like that. I do. No one flirts with me anymore. We meet Billy in half-an-hour. Let’s rain check that part till...say...next Saturday?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now. What do we know about what he likes to do? It said video games, but I’m not very up on which ones kids play.”

“He does ride his bicycle quite a bit. Though he’s been keeping indoors lately. Likes all kinds of video games. I'm sure he’d be happy to show you which ones if it means he stays inside. Board games, too. He is an excellent student, but his grades have been slipping. He enjoys music as well. He is in his school orchestra. Second chair cellist, in danger of dropping a few seats next year if he keeps skipping his music lessons. And skipping his regular classes to say he’s going to his music lessons.”

“This sounds like a lot more than was in the case files.”

“I’m good at research.”

“You felt the need to research a ten-year-old?”

“I...was concerned. That I would not be, adequate to the task.”

Greg pushed Mycroft’s drink toward him. “How?”

Mycroft took it and simply swirled the bottle around. “I was concerned he’d be too much like Sherlock. That it would remind me of the ways in which I failed. And. Please don’t tell me it’s not my responsibility. That we can’t protect everyone all the time. I am well aware.”

“I know you are.” Greg looked as if he was considering saying more, but changed the subject instead. “Well, I'm pretty good at chess. Not as good as you are, I'm sure.”

“Why does everyone assume I’m good at chess?”

“Because you are a genius, Mycroft. And geniuses play chess. Are you telling me you don’t?”

“Well, I do, yes. But not particularly well. I taught myself to play, After watching an Ingmar Bergman movie. I much prefer cinema to chess.”

“ _The Seventh Seal_ ”. 

“Yes. _The Seventh Seal_.

“If death comes for me I hope we can play something else.”

“I have it on good word that Death will also play Battleship, Cluedo, Tabletop American Football and Twister.”

“You're kidding me.”

Mycroft grinned.

“Your idea of cinema includes cheesy 80s comedy films?”

“To be fair, that's a cheesy 90s comedy film.”

“Best of three...”

“Five.”

“Seven!”

Greg looked as if he were about to fall over. “I had no idea.”

“I watch all kinds of films.”

“What is your favourite genre?”

“Noir.”

“Because it’s old fashioned and romantic?”

“Because it’s predictable. Predictable is relaxing.”

“I thought you'd find predictable boring.”

“Now there you are confusing me with my brother. I like nothing better than established patterns. It is my life’s work to preserve them whenever possible. And I daresay, his to disrupt them.”

Greg smiled. It was stunning, the way his eyes seemed to draw you in. Mycroft was mesmerised.

“And...maybe... also because it’s romantic,” he added. “Well, we’ve, sidetracked, a bit.”

“I don’t know that this is something anyone could prepare for.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve tried. I suppose, this being an initial visit, we shouldn't expect much by way of trust.”

“Keep it light. Play some games. Be… approachable?”

Mycroft frowned. “Approachable. And what am I meant to do while you are being approachable?”

“Mycroft, you were chosen for this. That means you and he already have some things in common. I don’t know what they are, but, I’m sure they are there.”

“Or maybe my time hiding behind a desk was up and I had to prove myself useful.”

“Doubt they’d do that to Billy.”

“You’re right.”

“Just as soon keep you behind a desk anyway if it wasn’t a good match. You’re good at that. At...whatever it is you do.”

Mycroft looked at Greg with a degree of suspicion. This had all gone...surprisingly... well. “Yes.” Mycroft would offer no additional commentary.

“Oh, I’m not angling for information. I don’t really care. I do my thing, Sherlock does his thing, you do your thing and if at the end of the day there are less criminals on the street, I’m happy. I’m not about to, say, go breaking into someone’s house for evidence. I have my rules to adhere to, and I do. That’s my job. But I’m glad sometimes that it isn’t his, or yours. That’s all I need to know.”

“That and how to find a legal way to use whatever Sherlock finds in their house.”

“Yeah. Exactly. And, that requires its own kind of, skill.”

“I’m not what Sherlock implies I am.”

“Which is what?”

“Some sort of proponent for destruction. I synthesize information, like a central exchange. A clearinghouse, if you will. I look at what is happening all around the world and I make interdepartmental predictions. Nothing more ominous than that. And I have no specific title. I created my own role. It truly is, a minor position. Albeit an influential one. See.” Mycroft leaned back and smiled, folding his hands down on the table. “Perfectly capable of telling someone without having to kill them.”

“Grateful for that. We should get going. I figure our role is to look intimidating at the school but not be intimidating after they all leave. What you did just then? Very intimidating. Think you can translate it to a schoolyard of kids?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Well, try your best.” Greg placed some notes on the table and they headed out.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg and Mycroft had no choice but to ride in silence, the noise of their bikes would drown out any attempt at conversation, though they did communicate somewhat by taking moments in turn to simply look at one another. Mycroft reviewed the day’s events in his head. Greg Lestrade was a long time motorcyclist. Yes, clearly. Greg Lestrade was bisexual. Yes, that tracked fine. Greg Lestrade was interested in him. 

Mycroft ran through it all once more. 

It was not as if he didn’t have a certain presence— commanding, authoritative. Mycroft knew this. In his element he could be formidable, and of course that was an attractive feature for many. And a certain percentage found his intelligence attractive in and of itself. Or the degree of power which he possessed. And he was somewhat physically appealing, albeit in a less-than-conventional sense. He kept fit. He was… elegant, when the occasion called for it. He just hadn’t ever expected to be appealing to someone like Greg. Someone who had his own strength of character and no need to seek it out in another. Someone attractive in those conventional ways. While one could certainly debate whether or not Mycroft qualified as such—and that was fine—one did not find one’s self having to cautiously lay out a debatable case when it came to Greg Lestrade. 

But, Mycroft had been sufficiently charming to have caught his interest for a, well, yes a _date_ , though he had referred to it as more of an _undate._ Given the things they had in common were hardly the stuff of pleasant conversation, perhaps they could attend a film together. Followed by dinner. Who doesn’t enjoy a fine meal? 

Mycroft knew he was good company. Versed in many topics of interest, able to carry on a lively conversation, socially adept enough to know how to recover if it should turn awkward. As much as he despised the hunting analogy, Mycroft was rather like a persistence predator. He never quite overwhelmed his target so much as wore him down by a sort of gentle, yet determined pursuit. Or course, few were truly worth expending the effort.

Well, he would deal with all that later; they were moments from Billy’s school. 

Greg and Mycroft entered the building to introduce themselves to the administrative staff. A few students who had been released early were already wandering about the hallways and quietly stared at the newcomers with their wide eyes. Mycroft didn't think of himself as particularly impressive looking, but once he saw just how very small many of these children were, he quickly realised it was not an issue of bulk for them so much as height. And Mycroft had height. He carried himself just a bit taller as he strode into the office. 

The receptionist looked at them with a measured friendliness which likely masked disdain. She checked their identification, ran it through a scanner, then printed out a peel-off label with their names and a grainy black-and-white photo. It looked pretty ridiculous stuck on top of their motorcycle jackets. ‘Mycroft Holmes’, ‘G Lestrade’. Greg had spoken the truth— even his police identification just said G. Mycroft smiled at what felt like very intimate knowledge indeed.

“Billy is still in class. He will likely be out a bit late, as he has some assignments to gather for all his missed days. You two can wait outside by the front entrance if you'd like. We don't have a _motorcycle_ area, but you can bring them over by the bicycle rack. The grass is already pretty worn there.”

Greg nodded. Mycroft looked at the wall clock. It was nearly three fifteen. They went back outside and moved the bikes up front. A woman walked up to them and smiled. “Hello. I’m Billy’s mum, Catherine, but you can call me Cat. Pleased to meet you both.” She extended her hand, and Greg said, “Din,” as he shook it. “I mean. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, but...yeah. Din.” 

“Which means you must be ‘H’, then.” She offered her hand to Mycroft, who was contemplating whether or not he should make up a new pseudonym on the spot as a small army of children rushed down the steps forcing them to the side to avoid being knocked over. She searched the crowd for her son.

“The receptionist implied he would be staying a bit longer,” said Mycroft. Greg stood a bit closer to the bikes, as a few interested kids were getting a bit too close to them for comfort.

“Oh. I forgot his maths teacher wanted to give him make-up work. He missed some classes on the days when we left early to meet with Jessica Marchant. She’s a sort of trial assistant. She wanted to get to know him a bit. Help him understand what was expected. She’s really great. They’re doing a lot to help him. I didn’t know they would do so many different things. Like not use his name. And video his testimony in advance. I had no idea that...well of course I had no idea, it’s not like we’ve been through this before, but I…. I’m sorry. I’m just babbling now. I’ll just stop.”

Mycroft debated placing a hand on her shoulder and decided against it, but did move marginally closer. “No. You’re fine,” he said. “Truly. And I wasn’t aware either.”

“Yes. I remember the letter said this was your first time working directly with a BACA child.”

Mycroft reminded himself that being new wasn’t some sort of veiled insult. There was a first time for everything. This work was about instinct as much as it was about experience. Every child’s coping mechanisms are unique. _Remember. They chose you._ “Yes, I worked in more of a behind-the-scenes capacity.”

“So you know all about BACA then! The whole organisation!”

“Yes. Yes I do. And... Din works with children frequently.”

“I’m glad between the two of you you can answer all his questions. Sometimes Billy...asks a lot of questions.”

Mycroft smiled and gestured toward Greg. “Between the two of us, I believe we can field any of them.”

The throngs of schoolchildren slowed to a trickle and Billy made his way down the steps slowly. His mom stepped forward. “Billy, this is H. And this is Din.”

Greg rejoined the group at the base of the stairs. “Hi there, Billy! Wanna ride home with us?”

“No, thank you, I’d rather drive home with my mum.”

Cat glanced at them, concerned, but not surprised, before moving closer to Billy. She was clearly worried about how they would interpret this reaction. “It’s safe. I checked them out before setting it up. The organisation they work for.”

Billy looked at her, then shifted his gaze back to the two men. She glanced downward. There was a lot they both weren’t saying. That he didn't quite trust her judgment made sense— unfair though it was. Billy’s eyes took in everything possible about Mycroft and Greg. His focus was intense enough to make Mycroft uncomfortable, and he could only hope Billy was good enough at this to read the discomfort for what it actually was. Few were quite so brazen under normal circumstances— so yes, unexpected— but it was the surprising familiarity of the gesture that threw him off center. Greg seemed unaffected, however. That was fortunate.

“I’m a policeman, Billy. When I'm not riding on my days off that is. I can show you my—“

“I know you're a policeman.”

It was Greg’s turn to stare.

“OK, I’ll bite. How.”

“Your school sticker. You haven’t looked closely at it. It says NSY after your name. You gave them your badge as ID. And you,” he looked at Mycroft, “didn’t show police ID. Just the regular kind. And I know you are safe, but I think I’d still rather go home with my mum, if that’s okay.”

“‘Course it is.” 

This might be over before it began. For all his dread of this moment, Mycroft was disappointed. He watched as Billy and Greg continued their conversation.

“I still want to see your bike though.”

“Okay.”

“Next time you come. Can I make it louder? They say you can make it louder by adjusting the carburetor.”

Greg smiled. “The carburetor can give it more power, but for the noise you need to take off the baffle in the tip of the muffler—they call that the Db Killer. I can show you how to do it if you want?”

“I don't have to ride it, do I?”

“Nope. Whatever you want. When we come next time, would you like us to bring more people with more types of bikes?”

“No, yours are fine.”

“OK, you let us know if you want to see other kinds. I can bring another kind, next time.”

“The loud kind. With handlebars that look like a bicycle. And the front wheel goes far out in front.” 

“You got it.”

“When will you come again?”

“Next week if you want. We can meet here again or—“

“At my house. That would be best.”

On the way back, Greg turned into the roadhouse where they had met up. “Sorry, I just, need to decompress a bit. He’s a tough one.” Greg frowned. “Not like he means to be. He just...is.”

“I thought it was just me.”

“Oh no, I’ve seen my share of kids like that and I have to remind myself they've got no reason to trust me ‘till I give them one.”

“Excellent point.”

“And I really need to practice on adjusting the exhaust system. It isn’t difficult, but I don’t want to be scrambling at remembering how to do it with him watching me. Can I practice on you? On your bike? I promise to put it back just the way it was after. I doubt you’d want to ride around on a modified exhaust system.”

“What about the handlebars”

“Oh that’s easy. I have one like that. A Willie G. It isn’t a real chopper, but… it almost looks like a Billy Bike if you use your imagination, and— you have no idea what I’m talking about do you?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Well, to a cinema buff…”Easy Rider”?”

“Know of it, certainly. Never did see it. I can’t see everything, you know.”

“Dennis Hopper and—“

“Peter Fonda.” Mycroft waved his hand. “I know the basics.”

“Their bikes are the Captain America and the Billy Bike. Now that I think on it, I wonder if seeing his name on a bike while looking it up was what sparked his interest in that type. Anyway...mine doesn’t look exactly like those—they were custom—but it is close as far as the... feel of it. I bought mine back in ‘84. Had no idea how rare it was at the time. It’ll fit the bill nicely. Looks like I’m gonna be tinkering with the exhaust a bit.” 

“I don’t know that I have the full complement of tools necessary to—“

“Wrench, flathead screwdriver. Maybe a telescoping magnet?”

“In my storage unit near Pall Mal. I store the bike there along with tools; I don’t have anything suitable at home.”

“I'd offer you to come by my place and we could work on that bike together, but I don’t have it at my place. I store both of them at my sister’s. She is farther out in the country. Has a garage. So, your storage place isn’t exactly ideal but, it might be better.”

“That will be fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Nothing about spending time in a garage when they could have been having drinks in his library, subtly exploring areas of interest, if he had only had a proper garage, was fine. But needs must. He was quite curious what this Willie G looked like. And any time together was a good thing. 

“I’m a bit knackered. How about tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds fine.”

It wasn’t fine. He had quite a bit of work to get done tomorrow. Yes, some of his best synthesis was done out of office, but he still had, if not a mountain's worth of paperwork to wade through after taking today off, at least a small hill. But it was Friday, and Greg would likely have tomorrow off after taking off today to visit with Billy, as short a visit as that ended up being. He could get up early and work through most of it, though. No major political issues looming at the moment. 

“Good. Well, I suppose we can head back together for a bit, at least till the A13, and then I’ll see you tomorrow. Nine?”

“Yes.”

Greg pulled out his mobile. “Where’s it at?”

Mycroft gave him the name of the unit and the street address. 

“Shall we head back? We’re headed straight west. Might be best to grab a quick bite and wait till there’s less glare.”

“Ride off into the sunset, as it were.”

“More or less, yeah.”

That was actually good. Fitting, somehow. It almost made up for the far less than poetic reunion they would have tomorrow, tinkering with an exhaust system in a poorly-cooled storage unit.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft had arrived early enough to secure a street view from the enclosed stairwell between the units. The vantage point afforded him the opportunity to see Greg ride up, stop briefly, decide he was too early, and continue further down the street. Mycroft hadn’t wished to appear overly anxious either, but he had the advantage of waiting inside, out of view. He had come a full half-hour early— even though he didn’t own a telescoping magnet, and had put aside much of his paperwork to procure one.

Greg arrived, officially, at five-to-nine. Mycroft hastily returned to the storage unit and raised the door for him.

This was nothing like the not-so-expertly-repainted Pan European Greg had clearly obtained after the force had replaced them all with BMWs. The Willie G was unique. Which, made sense, as there were less than 1,000 ever produced. Mycroft had researched it of course, and knew all about the unique specifications, the solid disc rear wheel, the blackened exhaust system and the acorn bolts. It wasn't that Mycroft’s Royal Star Venture was inferior by any means. It was an altogether different experience. His was a dresser… deluxe, solid, with heated seats, an intercom between driver and passenger and a huge windscreen. And he never tinkered with it, just sent it regularly to a mechanic, like he would a luxury car. Greg’s bike was nimble, though it was still a two-seater, with none of the parts hidden behind fibreglass panels. Not quite as skeletal as the Billy Bike, but stripped nonetheless. What was striking, that one couldn’t get a true sense of through online photographs, was the rich oxblood colour. And the man on it… well…

Though Mycroft was a man of few words, he was struck by the fact that he should be saying something, instead of merely staring at Greg as he dismounted and removed his helmet with the same quick tousle. Something flattering of course, but not simply idle words. What he ended up saying was, “It’s impossible to tell which one compliments the other more.”

Apparently, this had been a good choice. Greg might just have flushed a bit. Difficult to tell, as he lacked Mycroft’s distinct office tan. It might have just been wishful thinking, for Greg to have been thus affected, but the grin was there and real and was brighter than the gold flake paint in the sunlight.

Greg rolled the bike in the rest of the way and sighed. “The parts on it aren’t exactly common, so I'm not sure I’ll have an easy time of it. My other one being a cop cycle in disguise means it isn’t exactly made to be modified, and yours is..stunningly elegant, but I think extra noise buffers are standard equipment on it. I guess we should try to change this one and then...change it back so he can have a go.”

Mycroft handed over the wrench and the screwdriver. “Whatever you think best.”

Greg looked up at the ceiling light. “Hopefully that’s bright enough to work by.”

“Yes, it is quite bright: I just left the unit open because it gets a bit warm in here and I don’t have a fan. So, we have a... choice between comfort and privacy.”

“Doesn’t seem that warm to me, but then again, I’m not the one in the waistcoat. Did you come here straight from work?”

“I had to... pop in and take care of a few pressing matters, yes. But it’s fine now.”

Mycroft nearly laughed out loud at himself. Every time he has said something was fine it was exactly the opposite, and this was no exception. But he had left. And he would attend to the trade issues later.

“I choose privacy—at first, anyway. If it’s really stuffy we can always open it, I just, don’t much like the thought of strangers wandering by hearing me curse at inanimate objects. Which I have a tendency to do. No repair job ever goes smoothly.”

Mycroft flicked on the overhead light and pulled down the door. “You are right. It never does go smoothly.”

“Can’t imagine you cursing up a storm.”

“I have mostly trained myself out of the habit, but, there was a time…”

“Really?”

“Well, not frequently, I’ll admit.”

Greg pulled out his mobile and pressed a button. Audio commentary played as he attempted to follow along, looking at the bike: “ _Locate the small nut on the bottom of your exhaust pipe, approximately 10-inches from the end of the tail pipe. The nut connects to a bolt that holds the baffle into place. Remove the baffle-retaining nut with a wrench and push the bolt upward and into the tail pipe. The bolt will stay in the baffle_.” Greg hit pause.

“It sounds like I’m just shoving an extra piece up in there. That can’t be good.” He examined the pipes. “Well, there it is. Here, you hit play and then pause it at the next step. I wanna know what I’m doing next before I remove stuff.” He handed the mobile to Mycroft, who pressed play once more: “ _Place a long flathead screwdriver into the end of the tail pipe and use it to pull the metal baffle out of the tailpipe. The bolt should come out with it. If it does not, use a telescoping magnet to remove the bolt.”_

“Okay, I think that just unfastens it and I pull the whole thing out. Do they actually show it?”

Mycroft turned away from Greg, who had been kneeling on the floor peering into the tailpipe, and focussed on the video.

“Just him talking and a stock illustration. I’ll look for another video.”

“I’d like to actually see someone do this before I make an attempt.”

“Here is one on standard Harleys. It’s a live recording.”

“That should do.”

After locating a video that actually showed the baffle being removed, Greg took out the nut and pushed the bolt inward. It popped smoothly into the chamber.

“Well, that was easy enough. Now I just, pull it out.”

Except the baffling inside wouldn’t budge.

“I’m not missing another bolt, am I?”

Mycroft compared the design of the bike’s exhaust system to the one they’d just watched, and then reviewed it again. “It should just slide out. But then again this is an eighty...four? Might just be a bit rusty?”

“Fuck.” Greg struggled with it some more and wiped his brow. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise.”

Greg tugged at it again, then attempted to pry at it with the screwdriver. “Trying not to damage it. Parts are hard to come by and I’d rather not put in a new exhaust system if I can help it. Maybe...could we both—“

Mycroft removed his waistcoat and joined Greg on the floor as they both grabbed the edges of the pipe and pulled. It seemed to move slightly, and the metal groaned. Mycroft peered into the pipe. “It looks like there are some grooves further up. If we could employ some sort of hook, we could line it up with the— wait!”

He righted himself and crossed the storage unit to a large, multi-drawered tool chest, then shook his head and headed instead to a tall metal cabinet on the far wall. He returned carrying a jack. 

Greg had resumed his struggling, unbuttoned his shirt, and was tugging it free from his jeans. He stopped, with half his shirt out and the other still tucked in, and stared at the jack and then at Mycroft. “You... intend to jack up...a motorbike?” Greg took a large step backward and made a ‘be my guest’ gesture.

Mycroft rolled up his sleeves as well as his eyes, then twisted the long metal handle off the jack. He pointed dramatically to the slightly protruding bump of metal on it and smiled. He looked inside the pipe once more and wedged the bit of metal into a groove on the side of the pipe and pulled. It came free, along with copious amounts of dust. Mycroft bowed slightly and presented the baffle to Greg as if it were a trophy.

“Wish I’d have thought of that,” he said. “Now I’m way behind in impressing you.”

Mycroft wanted nothing more than to smash his own head into the concrete wall behind him.

Greg was standing there, shirtless, with just enough sweat on his body to send of a waft of rather masculine essence, enough on his brow to make it shimmer, as he made his intentions perfectly clear without being the least bit crass. For someone who had been out of the game for several years, Greg was certainly expert at it. They were two grown men who were both interested in each other...and yet, Mycroft, though they had been millimetres apart and breathing hard from exertion and exaltation, still hesitated. Truth be told, he hated this part of himself. It wasn’t even as if he could claim uncertainty as to how Greg would react to his leaning in and kissing him, then guiding them both down to the welcome coolness of the concrete floor. He could almost feel it against his skin as he thought of it. It was his move. Say something witty about being impressed with… well… Greg was an impressive sight, and it was the perfect time for innuendo. But instead, he stood there, saying nothing, while Greg waited.

“Well,” said Greg, “Some of the fuel is gonna go out the exhaust now, and I’ll lose torque at midrange, but it’ll be loud at least. And it’s an easy enough mod for Billy to do it himself.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg’s expression made it perfectly clear he knew what he meant, even if he wasn’t sure how to reply. Mycroft hoped he wouldn’t try to end the awkwardness by joking about the baffle being nothing to be sorry about. That would only serve to make things infinitely worse.

“If I ask you something, will you give me an honest answer.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Is this a ‘no’, or a ‘not yet’.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “I’ve generally been working under the impression that, for most, a ‘not yet’ translates to a ‘no’. But a ‘no’ is certainly not what I want to say.”

“I’m not most.”

“It’s ‘Not yet’. But I can’t tell you why not. I’ve no idea.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s—”

“Please don’t say that it’s fine. Any other word will do.”

“I was going to say it’s understandable, given all we’ve been dealing with lately, that romance is not exactly at the front of your mind right now.”

Mycroft was relieved. That...made sense. Perhaps he should have been able to separate all this out, and continue with his life unaffected by it all. But perhaps it was finding its way in after all. 

“There’s no need to apologise for all this affecting you. And probably I was a bit insensitive with my poor timing. It was just that your interest before caught me off guard, so I felt like I needed to make my own interest as clear as possible. I wasn’t considering the circumstances nearly well enough. Got a bit selfish. Saw my opportunity and I didn’t want it to pass by.”

“And to think you had just said you were behind in impressing me.”

“What, this? No, this is just my not wanting to ruin it before it even starts.”

“It’s not just the circumstances, though. I tend to be cautious about things, in general. I suppose it’s just part of how I function. In many instances it is beneficial, but in this one— I know it is hardly typical.”

“I didn’t expect anything about you to be typical. I don’t like typical. Don’t go changing any of it. My wife wasn’t typical, and we had almost twenty good years. You never know how long you are going to get with brilliance, but I think anyone would call that a good run. And no, I don’t think she had her affairs because she was brilliant. Didn’t stop her from having them, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg smiled. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. Now help me put this damn baffle back in so the kid can take it out again.”


	12. Chapter 12

Greg had to work late, so it was Mycroft who joined Billy and his mum at the courthouse to meet with Jessica Marchant, who would record his testimony. She said he could watch a few trials if he wanted, to better understand the process. There would be a plain-clothes judge and barristers if he requested it— though Billy told her the fancy wigs and all that didn’t bother him, and he told his mum it would be just fine if he was in the courtroom when it all happened and none of this extra stuff was necessary. She wasn’t so sure. Ms Marchant quietly suggested he do the recording now; he could always change his mind and go in person, but this way it would at least be over and done with. He’d have to attend on the date anyway, because he might still be cross-examined— if the defense saw the need— though she hoped they wouldn't. Mycroft was fairly certain they would. Discrediting a child was likely worth the risk if done by skilled barristers, and Albert Gruner had connections.

At least the cross could be done via dual video link, and the questions checked by Ms Marchant, who was acting as a sort of translator for any confusing phrasing. Gruner would not be visible to Billy, nor would he be able to observe the testimony directly— though he would be able to hear it. And Billy would retain his anonymity throughout the trial. Billy Winter would be referred to solely as Witness A.

Mycroft waited while Billy made the recording. As the time passed, he began to wonder if they were rerecording parts of his testimony or if there was just a lot of it. He could only hope it was the former. 

Outside the courthouse, Mycroft told Billy that when he appeared next week he could expect nearly all of London BACA to be there. Billy smiled for the first time since they’d met. 

“Where’s your partner?” The alternate meaning of the word took Mycroft by surprise with a sudden and unanticipated awkwardness, but clearly Billy saw them much as he would two cops in a film. 

“He’s working at the moment; but don’t worry, he’ll bring the other bike to your house, just like he said he would. And you can make it...noisy.”

Billy nodded. “Good.” He looked at Mycroft’s bike again, and then at Mycroft, then headed back to his mum’s car. “See you there.”

***

Cat headed to the window and watched Billy and H. She couldn't hear much, but it was enough to know that Billy was being more or less his typical self. Something about H not looking like a real biker. Her first reaction was embarrassment, but then she realised Billy was actually...being more or less his typical self...and what exactly that meant. Yes, it was blunt to the point of rudeness— he was...young...and she hoped in time he would learn to temper that— but that was so much better than the silence he had been adopting lately when he was around any male that wasn’t a child as well. And H seemed completely unaffected by the challenges Billy threw his way. He responded with a certain even-toned grace. It was nothing short of a miracle. She’d tell him that. She’d go right out there and—

Billy turned abruptly and ran straight toward the house, giving her just enough time to dart away from the window, unseen, as Billy swung open the door.

“Mum! I need my helmet! And a stopwatch! And a… no that’s it. How much faster is it, do you think? How much faster than my bike? If I pedal really hard I might go five miles per hour? Do you think? And it might take a while for Din’s motorbike to get going. But it might be really light and fast if it's like the one in the video. But that’s the real bike from the film. His can’t be that fast, can it?”

“I don’t know. I bet it can’t.”

“I know I can’t beat it of course, but...do you think a tenth as fast? A tenth, maybe? If I pedal real hard?”

Cat smiled. “I bet you could do it!”

“I bet I can. A tenth of a real motorbike!”

Cat grabbed the helmet out of the closet where it had been hanging on a hook. She hadn’t expected him to need it for some time.

“I can wear this helmet on both bikes, Mum!”

“That’s a great idea!”

“Get a timer and meet us outside, k?”

“I will.”

***

Greg had been rounding the corner just as Billy’s tentative agreement with Mycroft had been reached, and was surprised to see Billy had ran back inside the moment he pulled up.

“He’s getting his helmet,” said Mycroft. “And possibly his mother.”

Greg couldn’t hide his amazement. “You convinced him to ride?”

“Just down the block. And he’ll want to make it loud first.”

“Easily done. Well...now, anyway.” He laughed.

Billy asked to listen to Greg rev the engine both before and after he removed the baffle. By himself. 

His mother turned to Mycroft. “I’ve never seen him look so proud,” she whispered. Mycroft watched how at ease Greg was, explaining the steps and showing him the best way to loosen the bolts without them simply spinning and not unthreading, and pointing out the exact spot to hook the jack. It took Mycroft a moment to parse what it was he was feeling, as it was a kind of pride, too.

Cat pulled out her mobile and fumbled with the settings. “He wanted me to time how long it takes to go to the end of the block and back.” She found the stopwatch feature and gave a quick nod of acknowledgement. “He told me he wants to compare it with his bicycle.” She turned to Mycroft in earnest. “He hasn’t ridden his bicycle since Albert tried to give him pointers on going round the curves.” Her mouth wrinkled in distaste, as if she regretted speaking the name aloud. “I thought you should know that.” Then she looked over at Greg, who was holding the extricated baffle in both hands. 

“If we can provide a different context…”

“It’s a miracle,” she said. “All you’ve done already. You might not see it, but I do. And it’s a bloody miracle.”

Greg was explaining the different ways Billy could hold on safely now. He chose to sit in the second seat and place his hands high, just below Greg’s arms. Billy shouted “Go!” and they were off.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg held the lamb up to his mouth and paused a moment before taking a bite,

“Ah,” said Mycroft.

“‘Ah’, what?” Greg mocked.

“‘Ah’ as in ‘I see it now’. You didn’t consider me attractive initially—” 

Greg made to protest.

“No, no, it’s fine! You didn’t see me as attractive initially, so much as intriguing, but now you do.”

“I do.” Greg searched for words. “And if it feels a bit slow, it’s not that I'm not interested. I mean, it feels like we’re waiting, both of us, for a time that won’t feel...off… given all we are dealing with right now. But. That won’t happen any time soon. Maybe we… need this...”

 _“Precisely because_ that time when everything has sorted itself out properly isn’t going to happen any time soon?”

“Yeah. But also…”

“Come home with me.”

Greg looked down at his plate demurely and daintily wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Well, if you insist.”

“That sounded...a bit suggestive. I meant...let’s just…”

“No, I understand.”

Neither of them were particularly fond of displays of public affection, as a general rule, but the urge to simply touch each other battled against decorum as the driver speeded to Mycroft’s home. Greg slid his hand to the center of the rear seat, Mycroft took it swiftly. This had all been difficult— and it would be all the more difficult as the case moved forward— despite the feeling, however brief Mycroft knew it to be, that they would ultimately prevail. Billy had them. And they had each other. 

Mycroft was tracing his fingers along the back of Greg’s hand, and Greg turned his palm up, bending back his fingers ever so slightly. They still hadn’t made eye contact, but the gesture was striking in its vulnerability. _Here is my hand, do with it whatever you wish._ Mycroft traced his fingers along the other side now, then stopped, breathed, and held it tightly. He turned to Greg, leaned across what remained of the space between them, and kissed him.

There was so much in this simple kiss. A promise of things to come... yes, there was that. But there was also a simple comfort in just this Mycroft had not been expecting. As if it was something unique, unprecedented, even given the relationships they both had had previously. Kissing someone had never been noteworthy, and Mycroft had never been especially romantic. Admiring the romance in films, certainly, but with the firm understanding that it was never to carry over into reality. But this felt rather like a film. Too perfect. It made him wonder if he was putting far too much stake into it. And if this was nothing but a fling, brought on by their mutual need for something good, something comforting...well, this wasn’t exactly someone he could write out of his life when that need had passed.

The car pulled past the gate and Mycroft decided to force himself to relax; a day, a month, a lifetime...it would run as long as it would run. He would try to enjoy the moment. Something he had been making a conscious effort to do as of late. What was life but a series of moments?

He waited patiently for the driver to open the door. No reason for him to be privy to the thoughts running through his head— his eagerness to get inside, away from prying eyes, to do...whatever came next. Whatever came next.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trial begins. Though it isn’t graphic, I wouldn’t say it’s not disturbing.

Mycroft sat at the very front, just behind the barrister’s row, right where Billy’s mum would have been. _Should be_ , if you asked Greg, but she would also be testifying, and therefore could not be present during another witness’s statement. Which meant Billy had to go it alone. Mycroft and Greg would be behind him. Literally.

Billy would be brought to a different location before the trial began— where the live link was already set up— but he wanted to see the courtroom one more time before Gruner was permitted entry. Admittedly, they were doing all they could to make him at ease. As of this moment, Billy and his mother were seated on a bench in the hallway. They would both be escorted in shortly, and Greg would follow behind them. Mycroft’s self-appointed task was to survey the room in advance, scouting for anyone who could conceivably cause trouble. It didn't seem as if Gruner had friends coming to watch the trial. That was fortunate.

Mycroft continued to scan, now searching for Sherlock and John. He didn't exactly anticipate their attendance, but John had expressed some interest. Mycroft was just turning back to face the judge’s area when he saw John enter the room out of the corner of his eye. He walked halfway down the courtroom aisle, then turned to the left and stood in front of a wall at parade rest as the growing crowd of BACA members in their riding gear began to fill in the remaining seats.

John clearly longed to wear something intimidating as well. A dress uniform would not have been sanctioned, nor was it exactly appropriate… nor would it project anywhere near the level of out-and-out fear Mycroft could tell John had been wanting— because here he was, trying to look every bit a soldier. Probably wished he could have shown up with an LMG in full battle gear, maybe even with a string of grenades across his chest. John glanced at the BACA members and Mycroft couldn’t help but assume he was somehow disappointed that the best he could manage, legally anyway, was a camo jacket. Nothing anyone couldn’t have grabbed at Army Surplus, but John had upped the ante as best he could, displaying two prominent medals—even if they were somewhat incongruous pinned on his battle fatigues. That worked well enough; he shouldn’t have been concerned. John still managed to retain the air of someone no one in his right mind would want to mess with. 

John turned his head while keeping his body in formation. He was also scanning the room for Sherlock.

Maybe he’d show up. Maybe not. Mycroft’s money was on not. After all, Sherlock had no need to demonstrate his support any more than he had done. When Mycroft had extended the invitation regardless, Sherlock had said he had no interest in watching some random child discuss private matters and refused to look up from his microscope. 

_“The more people there, the worse the experience. Difficult enough to speak to a judge in an empty room. His family will be there for support, and anyone attending beyond that would constitute artificial concern. He is an intelligent child, I have heard. I have no doubt he will sense that.”_

_“I don’t find my concern to be artificial.”_

_“Well, BACA is like a small army of bodyguards. That’s...valuable to a child. I suppose.”_

Mycroft hadn’t known at that time that Billy’s mum would not be allowed in the courtroom whilst Billy was on the stand, but he didn’t expect that the new information would have mattered one whit to Sherlock, and, frankly, Mycroft didn’t care what Sherlock did. Mycroft would be there in any case. As would Greg. As would a whole slew of supporters.

As Billy entered the courtroom and headed to meet the judge, John approached Mycroft and shifted character, appearing uncharacteristically withdrawn for one taking such great pains to project bravado. “I’d like to give him something,” John said. “If it’s all right with you.” John wasn't carrying anything to give. Then Mycroft raised his eyebrows in understanding, cursing himself for being so obtuse. He rose and walked with John toward the front row.

“Billy, this is my friend, Captain John H Watson, and he has something for you.”

He nodded and looked at John.

“Billy, when I was sent home from battle, they gave me these.” He sunk down to Billy’s height, then pointed at one of the medals on his chest. “This one was just for being there. Nothing special about that. But this one was for Conspicuous... well there's a fancy name for it, but the point is I got it because I still did my job, even though I was terrified. It has colours meant to represent the Afghan landscape— which I know means nothing to you— and this one’s the colours of our own flag, but, I thought maybe you might like something more suited to you. For you doing what you need to do today.” 

John retrieved a medal from his pocket. 

“Here’s the shiny coin part. It actually is made of money, you know, but it isn't worth a lot, it’s just supposed to look nice. And there’s a black stripe, for the dark times, and a blue stripe—that's for courage. Courage is usually red or blue. And the white stripe is for you to draw whatever you want to on there. Or maybe even leave it blank, because, after today—after this part is over—it's all a blank slate. You get to decide what comes next in your life. You. Not anyone else.”

Greg came up the aisle and unobtrusively took a seat in the row behind the prosecutor. He turned to face Mycroft, who was alternating his gaze between Billy and John as John pinned a medal on Billy’s vest. This one was leather. The group had upgraded it. 

“Time to go,” said Ms Marchant. “Anyone else you would like to meet with first?” 

Billy shook his head. They left the room.

“He’s here,” whispered Greg.

For a moment Mycroft had thought he meant Gruner, but Greg continued. “I mean, I saw him in the hallway. Looked like he just came in from having a smoke, to be honest. I don’t know if he is, you know… _here_ here.”

Mycroft turned to look at the crowd and frowned. To have come this far only to avoid the courtroom made no sense whatsoever. Unless Sherlock was — well, Mycroft certainly wasn’t about to win any awards for his insight today, was he? He rose to let John know, but he had seemed to already sense what was happening, as he headed directly to Sherlock to join him just as the courtroom doors opened. John didn’t say a word. His hand reached out for the small of Sherlock’s back, but he quickly withdrew it before making contact.

Sherlock searched for an aisle seat, but the room was far too crowded for that now. He settled for one in the back corner, and glared harshly at a woman in front of him and two seats to the left. _Ah. Gruner did have a friend decide to show up. A fiancée? Convinced the crazy ex was making the whole story up, no doubt._ Both Sherlock and Mycroft stared at her from opposite sides of the room, but she remained unaware of their scrutiny and quietly fidgeted with the clasp on her purse.

The formalities of the trial commencing, Mycroft found himself paying little attention, instead focusing on the woman’s reactions. Finally, the prosecutor showed Billy’s ABE testimonial video. Billy did well. He was far more calm than anyone could have reasonably expected. Greg noticed Mycroft glancing over at the woman, who remained unperturbed, once more.

“That’s Violet de Merville,” said Greg. “They interviewed her. She’s his fiancée. She stood firmly by him, said all these lies would fall apart at the trial when they didn’t find a shred of evidence.” Greg narrowed his eyes. “Just wait till she sees that online journal.”

The journal had been hotly contested. Greg said the word was Gruner insisted no such document existed. Then he claimed it must have been planted on his computer when he brought it in for a repair. Now, in the introductory statements, the barrister, a woman in a navy suit with her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, seemed to imply it was downloaded by someone who hated and sought to discredit him. How that mysterious figure got access to all those photographs was presumably something she would bring up later on in the trial.

The clerk pressed some buttons, there was a brief series of beeps, and Ms Marchant was visible on screen. She was quickly replaced by Billy who looked straight at the camera. A cross examination was hardly surprising, despite everyone’s hopes to the contrary. Gruner’s barrister stepped in front of the remote camera, which was angled to the side so the screen was still visible to the judge but not to Gruner, who had been relocated to a new seating area out of view. She gestured sharply at the crowd of perfectly quiet men and women dressed in leather jackets and tattered vests.

“Who are these people?” 

“That’s BACA,” Billy replied.

“And what’s BACA?”

“Bikers Against Child Abuse”

“Like... bicycles?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “No, it’s motorcycles.” Clearly he was leaving a choice word or two out of his reply. Mycroft, watching intently from the second row, smiled.

“Why are they here?”

“Well, they’re supporting me.”

The barrister asked Billy if he remembered some details of his life around the time of the alleged abuse. Mostly school-related questions. Subjects he liked and didn't like. His favourite teachers. She seemed friendly enough, but Mycroft knew she was looking for him to make a mistake on which courses he studied during which year. 

Billy answered slowly. He didn’t trust her. ‘Alleged’. Another child might not even have known what alleged meant. Billy certainly did. 

The questions kept coming. ‘Do you have a lot of friends your age?’; ‘Do you like to talk with people online?’; ‘Do you know their ages?’; ‘Do you ever make friends with adults?’; ‘Do you tell them how old you are ...or do you keep that a secret?’ 

Greg leaned forward in his chair, looking for all the world like he wanted to head up there and deck her. The direction of the questioning was obvious to Mycroft, but Billy would not know how to navigate it successfully.

Billy was fidgeting. Marchant silently handed him something which was partially off camera. Mycroft could tell it was a squeezable foam ball. The barrister dropped that line of questions in favour of another path: The first time he met Albert Gruner, a friend of his mum. 

Billy wasn’t speaking now, mostly staring forward. She repeated a question.

“Was he nice to you?”

“At first.”

“He gave you something, didn’t he?”

“A camera. He knew I liked to draw and he said he bet I could take nice pictures.”

“And you thanked him for the gift?”

“Yes.”

“Did he give it to you in secret?”

“Objection, your honor.”

“I’ll rephrase the question. Was your mother aware he had given you this camera?”

“Yes.”

“Was she there when he gave it to you?”

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who appeared to have stopped looking at the screen and at Violet de Merville. He was clearly processing something. Whether it was regarding Billy, the barrister, or himself he couldn’t be certain.

“Yes,” Billy said.

“Did he teach you how to use it?”

There was a brief pause in his answer. “Yes.”

“Did he teach you how to reverse the lense? Like, to take a selfie?”

Billy shifted in his chair. Then he looked down quickly, surprised. Mycroft assumed Ms Marchant had placed a hand on his knee. He looked back at the camera. 

“Yes,” he said.

Sherlock got out of his seat and stormed out. John followed. Mycroft considered the angle of the remote link and whether Billy would be able to see it if he left the courtroom. It was trained toward the barrister. Mycroft was out of view. He glanced at Greg, who gestured to the door. He’d keep him informed, but there was little need. Mycroft knew where this line of questioning was going. He heard the next part as he made his way down the aisle to the exit doors:

“Did he say why he was giving you such an expensive gift?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“I’ll rephrase. Did he say why he gave you a present?”

“He said that he thought I might be jealous of him spending time with Mum, and he wanted me to have something fun to do at home when they went out on dates.”

“Were you jealous?”

“Objection.”

“I’ll allow it,” said the judge.

“Answer the question...okay?” Ms Marchant nearly said Billy’s name, and corrected herself in time. “Go ahead.”

“Maybe a little.”

It took a supreme manifestation of will not to have slammed the courtroom door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no trial lawyer and the language is rather specialized. If you are one, and feel like giving it a betaing, I will eventually clean these bits up and assistance is always appreciated. For now, I am leaving it written to the best of my ability to not bog down the writing process.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock was pacing in the hallway, muttering to himself about the idiot prosecuting attorney not knowing when to object and how this was all a set up. John was at a loss. He sat on the bench as Mycroft forced his way between his brother and his path of agitation. 

“We know where this is going, but that doesn’t mean it will be successful,” Mycroft told him.

“The smart ones do their preliminary work in public. Nothing wrong with giving him a _gift_. Next step—imply Billy took the photographs himself. As if who was pushing the button makes one bit of difference given the degree of coercion involved. It goes one of two ways now... equally effective strategies: He wanted the attention from the older man, or he wanted to discredit him.”

“Jealousy. That’s where the questioning was headed as I left.”

“No objection from our incompetent counsel, I assume,” Sherlock said, gritting his teeth. “If he intended to let this line of questioning go unchallenged, the least he could have done was prepare his witness accordingly.”

“You mean rehearse.”

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. “Fine. Yes. Rehearse. Legalities be damned.”

“And risk detection, Risk the whole case being thrown out for illegal process.”

Sherlock scowled, turned in the other direction, and began walking away.

Mycroft raised his voice slightly, speaking steadily at Sherlock’s back. “And also...there was an objection. The judge allowed the questioning.”

Sherlock turned around, but faced only John. “She’s going to imply he had the savvy to take them and upload them to Gruner’s laptop. The next question she will ask, and she has likely already done this a few moments ago, will establish his technical competence, which Billy undoubtedly has. She will use his intelligence against him.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “We can rely on the judge to see through the—”

“Rely on the judge. Really? Plant enough doubt and Gruner goes free. Plant enough doubt and even Billy won’t be certain what actually happened. She needs to see those pictures.”

John looked at them both. “The barrister? She already has.”

“He means Violet de Merville,” said Mycroft softly. “Albert Gruner’s fiancée.”

Sherlock ignored them both, speaking to no one in particular. Mycroft watched him openly; at least Sherlock was easy to assess now...he wasn’t even acknowledging anyone else’s existence. “Once she sees those photographs, she won't be able to get them out of her mind. _She_ will be the one confronted with the full force of that doubt, not Billy. We need for Gruner to lose his fiancée, at the very least. If he gets away with this by having purchased one of England’s finest and most soulless legal representatives, it is certain he will try this again, and I will be there to stop him. But first, he _must_ lose her. As they will still run in the same social circle, we can be assured Violet de Merville will feel shocked and betrayed and work her hardest to bring Gruner down. It will be Violet who ensures that there will be enough side glances and whispers generated to ensure she never attends another social affair, ever.”

She. Mycroft let the pronoun slip go by without comment, but Sherlock was already blurring lines, deteriorating. He’d break him free. It would anger Sherlock, but Mycroft was certain he wouldn’t ignore the comment, and at least it would pull him out of the mire. He spoke slowly, giving the words time to seep through. “Let’s see how it plays out here first, shall we?”

Sherlock eyed Mycroft with suspicion. 

“I will not interfere with your plans, Sherlock, should this trial go sideways—”

 _“Should?_ That implies it hasn’t already.”

Mycroft continued. “Should the end result not be...satisfactory. But let’s wait for that end result first.” Good. Sherlock was furious with him now. That was a far safer headspace. There was little he could do at this point, and hopefully John would provide a sufficient degree of comfort as Sherlock took refuge in railing at Mycroft for being a pompous arse with far too much faith in the establishment. He headed back to the courtroom.

Mycroft joined Greg once more. His expression told him all there was to know, though he still began to recount the recross when Billy’s lawyer’s attempted to explain grooming and correct misconceptions. Mycroft merely shook his head and stared at the video screen. The barrister indicated this stage was nearly at an end by a slight change in her posture and a suppressed sigh. 

“Mr Gruner says he was never aware those photographs were on his laptop. And if he was, don’t you think he wouldn’t—”

“Objection. Conjecture.”

“Agreed. Please rephrase the question.”

“You are saying that he was aware, really? That you are absolutely certain he knew?”

There was a slight pause as Billy weighed the meaning of the words before he answered firmly: yes.

“Thank you for your time, Witness A.”

The screen went dark just as Billy looked as if he might have been about to say, ‘You’re welcome.’


	16. Chapter 16

“How did you meet Mr Gruner?”

“At the park. He was going for a jog and stopped near my bench to redo his laces. I moved my lunch aside and suggested he have a seat.”

Mycroft watched as Ms Winter gave her testimony. Gruner had met them both at the park again the following week. This time, he said he was there watching his niece. He had gestured to a group of girls gathered beneath the slide. Mycroft glanced at Violet de Merville. She seemed particularly distraught. He didn’t need to hear Kitty’s testimony that she now believed none of them were, in fact, his niece, as the girl never came up in conversation again, nor did he need to hear Gruner’s barrister’s objection, nor the judge’s agreement with it to know Violet already had doubts. But she seemed to shake them off— and even smiled at Gruner.

Billy’s mother’s testimony wasn’t particularly damning. And the barrister did his level best to make her look like a questionable caretaker— a trap she could scarcely avoid. She was either likely dating a series of men and promiscuous or holding back from those sort of activities to take care of her son whilst she grew more and more desperate for male companionship. She and Gruner grew closer, and when he offered to stay with Billy so she could make a dash to the grocery, she accepted. It took some time before she was able to connect changes in Billy’s behavior to the times Albert would stay the night. Did he seem jealous? Yes, at first she had thought so, but then Albert began spending even more time with Billy and she thought perhaps this would work out after all. That they would become a family. 

Violet leaned forward, listened carefully, smiled. Yes, this would have been precisely what she had been told. A child about to lose his mother to a romantic interest, Albert’s willingness to do all he could to make the boy at least tolerate him—maybe even like him. Gifts. Shared time together. It would have all sounded so noble to her. Of this, Mycroft was certain. 

When the testimony changed to the photographs Kitty had found (still on the camera in the deleted folder but far from being actually deleted), the discussion she had with her son, and her determination to see justice…. Violet was no longer avoiding her, but was watching her with an open contempt, as if it was all an elaborate fiction. Mycroft could not see Gruner’s face, but he didn’t need to in order to know his expression would match hers perfectly.

Did Gruner take the photographs? Billy had said yes, and she had believed him. 

The barrister showed one of them, blown up and projected onto a screen, and began explaining how the distortion indicated the angle had made it impossible for anyone but Billy himself to have taken the photograph. 

The courtroom fell silent. 

Much of the photograph was blacked out, but that didn’t seem to lessen the effect it had upon all those in attendance. The judge, however, remained professionally detached. Even so, this had clearly been a grave error, one from which the defense might not recover. Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, who refused to view the photograph; his eyes were fixed on Violet de Merville.

Violet paled and involuntarily brought her hand up to her mouth. Mycroft turned toward Sherlock once more and saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward in the slightest motion, then fall back into his mask. Sherlock had what he wanted. Violet would never feel the same about Albert again. It was over.

The barrister quickly switched off the projection, realising that in her zeal to discredit Billy she had presented the room with a concrete visual image they were unlikely to dismiss. Yes, this photograph was most certainly taken by Billy. Her plan had been to show a series of them to discredit him. How he hadn’t told his mother the truth that day. Instead, the barrister looked lost as to how to proceed and asked for a short recess. It was granted, as their own lawyer made furious notes on his legal pad.

Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s thigh. The weight of it was grounding. Greg turned to him. “Is Billy still with the social worker in the other room?”

“Yes. After Kitty’s testimony, they can both go home. Kitty could stay, but I assume she would rather get him out of here.”

“Should I go with them and you stay here? Should we both go? Should we...both stay?” Mycroft was taken aback at seeing Greg so frazzled.

Mycroft had hoped Sherlock could provide him with information on how the trial was progressing, but instead he was becoming more and more single-minded. John. John could watch. Or would it turn into John watching Sherlock watching Violet? 

Billy would need someone now, and so would Kitty. Greg could stay and watch the trial, but Mycroft seemed to have developed a sort of...tolerance was the wrong word. A form of buffer Greg seemed to have far less of. Mycroft was still thinking about strategy and counterstrategy, and whilst Mycroft was busy thinking, Greg was...well...Greg was simply feeling. The right thing to do would be to send him on home with Billy and Kitty.

“You go on. I’ll give you the latest updates, watch it until it concludes, and then join you.”


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft was finding it surprisingly difficult to watch the remainder of the trial without Greg by his side. He told himself it was unnecessary. Billy was the one who needed support, not some fully-grown man who was only experiencing difficulties due to his, albeit limited, sense of empathy. No. Sympathy. And one who only feels sympathy is hardly in need of someone to hold his hand in a figurative or literal sense. 

This was not about him in any manner.

He looked back at Sherlock and John. John was resting his hand on top of Sherlock’s. Mycroft corrected his miscalculation after observing the positioning of their forearms. It was Sherlock who had placed his hand in John’s. 

Mycroft resumed observing the trial. There was little left to be said before the concluding statements. The defense had done their best to make Billy seem manipulative and scheming...but there was something in those all-too-skinny arms caught at the edges of the blurred photograph, taken with a far from steady hand, that made it feel impossible. Billy’s lawyer...their lawyer...was far from incompetent, no matter what Sherlock’s anger-fueled assessment had been. He addressed it all skillfully, and Mycroft found himself riveted to the explanation, even though he had already came to the same conclusion quite some time before the barrister articulated it. 

Billy may very well think he had had a part to play in it, was somehow responsible, maybe even for a long time to come. But no one in that courtroom would think such a thing. Mycroft fought the urge to turn back to Sherlock. He didn’t need to observe him to know his brother would be listening carefully to assess the outcome at this point as Violet eyed the double doors, showing every sign of bolting once the trial was over and done with. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t do the same.

Logically, he would see the similarities as well as the differences— in the areas where it was indeed dissimilar. Emotionally, though... Sherlock was an emotional creature after all— he was continually reminded of that. But perhaps the best thing would be for him to bolt. He would have an opportunity to express himself in that manner, when there was little else which could be done. Sherlock needed time. John appeared to be giving him that. Mycroft had no role to play here, much as it grieved him to not have a way to fix things.

The trial concluded, and Mycroft pulled out his mobile, poised to text the results to Greg, who would pass it on to Kitty before their barrister would have the opportunity to do so.

Guilty.

Mycroft texted the word before giving himself time to process it. This meant the ordeal was over and Billy would have the blessing of a formal ruling in his favour. It wouldn’t alleviate all the doubt he was likely to face, but...it was something. And Gruner would be locked away for…. He waited patiently for the decision, hoping there would be no probation.

When the judge sentenced ten years Mycroft had never felt quite so equally pleased and disappointed. He would serve time, yes, but it wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. But it was something.

Mycroft left the courthouse silently, hopped on his bike, and began adjusting his helmet when he saw Sherlock walking toward him. He removed it and dismounted.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft’s jacket and smiled. “You should...remind his mother that Billy remains ignorant of all that she said today.”

Mycroft wrinkled his brow. “Was there something significant he needs to know? Aside from her general support, which I am fairly confident he sees as a given, I don’t see—“

“He lied to her about taking the photographs. Having neither seen nor heard the barrister’s argument, Billy thinks she still believes the lie. That everyone does.” He stopped for a moment, weighing what to say next.

Mycroft drew a quick breath and attempted to finish the thought. “So let him know that his participation was inconsequential. Before...so much time passes... that it seems pointless— almost, condescending— to remind him that the sole fault of abuse lies invariably with the abuser.”

“Exactly. He’s clever. He’ll get there. But getting there sooner, rather than later, would be...helpful.” 

Mycroft nodded, and after a moment, put his helmet back on and headed down the highway.


	18. Chapter 18

When Mycroft pulled up, Greg and Billy were already in the driveway, tinkering with Greg’s bike. Mycroft rode past them without so much as a nod and pulled his bike up to the front door. Greg turned as he passed by, puzzled, then asked Billy to hand him a screwdriver.

“Ms Winter…”

She was about to suggest he call her Kitty, but decided against it. Mycroft knew it must sound strange, as she had asked him to use her first name previously and he had complied, but there was some type of comfort within the formality which grounded him.

“You need to tell Billy the judge knew that he took some of the photographs himself.”

“But... why? Why discuss any of this?” Kitty frowned. “I mean…. I mean why talk about what happened when he wasn't in the courtroom. That’s why he wasn’t there. And... it’s all over anyway. We won.”

“It isn’t over. Not for Billy.”

Kitty shook her head. “I know it isn't like time has passed and all, but… but he has a kind of proof now. The judge believed him. Albert is headed to prison—“

“Billy thinks he was an active participant. He very likely interprets that as having provided some form of consent.”

“Of course it isn’t!”

“Billy thinks it is. It was disclosed during your testimony, and the judge agreed it was irrelevant, but Billy never saw that part. He believes the reason we won is because no one knows the truth, Kitty. He believes if they knew that he took some of those photographs, that Gruner would have been exonerated. You...you need to let him know it doesn’t matter.”

Kitty looked toward the driveway, where Greg was showing Billy how to make the bike quiet again. She stared at her son in silence before her eyes shifted away from them. She wasn’t looking at Mycroft either. Somewhere off in the distance then. Mycroft felt almost grateful for it. It gave him some time to compose himself as well. 

“I should have noticed that,” Kitty said. “The angle. But I guess I never thought that he could have taken...not as if he chose to, but…. Well, you're absolutely right, it doesn’t matter. Like the barrister said. It doesn’t matter if he did it or felt like he had to...or….. But what...what I can’t seem to get past is...if I’d looked at them closely, I would have noticed it myself.” She moved away from the window, but still refused to turn to Mycroft. “I didn't want to look closely. I didn’t even want to acknowledge they existed. I had to, so...I looked at them and asked him about it as calmly as I could manage. But afterward, I saved them to a drive and stuck it in a box and didn't open it until they were prepping for the trial. I didn't want to think about it. And that’s all on me. He’s been afraid of what I would think if I knew the truth... for all this time. And I… I was burying my head in the sand, not looking closely enough, not wanting to know all of it...and now…. Now, I was just about to do it again. To stick it all in a big box and pretend it was all over and done with. And it isn’t.”

“You and your son put a predator away for a decade and prevented him from harming other children. You did that today. As far as the past, we do the best we can, at the time.”

“No. I can’t say that. I saw things were a bit off and I thought he was just...adjusting to me dating again. I believed the lies Albert put out there. I bought his story instead of my son’s.”

“Did Billy try to tell you otherwise?”

Kitty paused. “Not outright, no. But I should have noticed. I should have checked. I should have asked.”

“Gruner was a master manipulator. He knew exactly what to say and do to drive away suspicion. That’s part of the fun for him. Getting away with it. He’s skilled. Very skilled. Practiced.” Mycroft knew what Kitty was about to say next, as surely as if he was having a conversation with himself. He waited.

Kitty finally faced Mycroft, her eyes no longer seeking somewhere else to focus. They flashed in anger. “I didn’t keep my son safe! What other purpose does a mother have?”

Mycroft sighed. “I… believe me when I say I understand. I...empathise.”

Kitty closed her eyes for a moment, as if attempting a reset. “Of course you do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. When he’s ready, let him talk about whatever he needs to, with whomever he needs to—even if it isn't you. Even if it’s about you. And let him be angry if he needs to be. But you need to know you did your best.”

“I guess I should find someone to talk to, too.”

“Of course you should.”

Of course. He had just said of course. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. To find some other person willing to listen to...all of it. He joined Kitty at the window once more, looking over at Greg reinstalling the muffler while Kitty watched her son handing him tools. Of course.


	19. Chapter 19

“Care to tell me what that was all about?”

“Actually, yes. But it might become a fairly long conversation, best discussed at your home over a glass or two of your finest single malt whiskey.”

Greg’s look of surprise led Mycroft to believe he had been thoroughly prepared to challenge him on his reluctance to share his emotions, but this...this was something he was thoroughly unprepared for. Greg barely managed to nod his head and say, “Okay, then. Home it is.”

They rode past the roadhouse where they had stopped twice now for conversation. Greg glanced at it, but Mycroft shook his head and mouthed, “Privacy.”

This would be difficult. Not only choosing how much to disclose, but also acknowledging, yet not falling into, the trap of Greg’s expectations. If he wanted to have a relationship, he needed to learn how to make Greg feel as if he had an important role in his well-being. No. He had to let Greg have an important role in his well-being. Quite different. 

They left the bikes outside and entered Greg’s flat in silence.

“Why my place. Why not yours?”

“It’s closer. And I need to speak quickly, before I decide it is far easier not to speak at all.”

“Okay.” Greg brought the drinks to the table.

“Just as the trial ended, Sherlock gave me some advice…concerning Billy.”

It was clear Greg wanted to jump in and ask a series of questions, but was forcing himself to give Mycroft the chance to speak without interruption. Mycroft looked down at the whiskey, then back up at Greg, then at the glass once more.

“I sometimes think that you must be a poor judge of character.”

Greg smirked. “You mean because I care for you.”

“Yes, of course. Because I am not what anyone would call a good man. Yet, here you are.”

“And here I intend to stay.” Greg picked up his drink and made a toasting gesture which Mycroft refused to join in.

“He pointed out something which, I’m reluctant to confess, I neglected to notice. You might find that statement to be indicative of a recurring theme.”

“Well, you can’t possibly notice everything.”

“One would hope I would notice the more significant points, however.”

Greg gave him a soft smile. “Not infallible, but no less extraordinary.”

“Sherlock reminded me that Billy’s mother just found out the truth concerning who took those photographs during the trial.”

“Well, he was paying a lot more attention to the trial then I thought, then. Looked to me like he was just watching Gruner’s fiancée the entire time.”

“Indeed he was.”

“Don’t tell me your rivalry runs so deep that you are annoyed he spotted something you didn’t?” Greg thought a moment, his browline wrinkling. “No, that isn't even a thing he observed so much as a...what..a warning? That Billy’s mother shouldn’t reprimand him? Not necessary. Kitty seems to me a pretty decent parent. I don't see why-“

“And Billy was not present during that section of it.”

“Okay...and so… Oh. He doesnt know she knows. And therefore doesn’t know what she thinks about him.”

Mycroft sighed. “That is yet another aspect I’m afraid I missed. My brother intended to convey that Billy believes he is responsible for what had occurred.”

“He isn't immune to the scheming of a scumbag like Gruner, getting drawn in, but afterward one can only hope a bright kid like that will realise he didn't cause anything to happen. I’m glad he wasn’t there to see the part where he claimed Billy just didn't like him dating his mom, though, because...I’m sure Billy... didn't like him dating his mom. There is always a grain of truth in every good lie.”

“Yes, and Sherlock reminded me it is sometimes all too believable. He has experienced...a similar situation...which, you have no doubt surmised from one of our previous conversations. He was Billy’s age when someone took advantage of him. As far as feeling culpable for what transpired, I never thought until now that Sherlock truly did. I couldn't provide any details, even if I wished to. He has never told me them. And that is all his story to tell. But, it appears, I have my own story to tell as well. I didn’t consider it worth the telling until I spoke with Ms Winter.”

“So you wanted to warn her about Billy feeling responsible. Alright. That explains the determination with which you headed into their home. You had a difficult purpose in mind. Did it go over well?”

“As well as could be hoped.” Mycroft took a drink. “I thought in joining BACA I could... explore a new...hobby... whilst doing some good. I’m sure you can relate. But, I also wanted to make amends.” Mycroft put the glass down and forced himself to look Greg straight in the eyes. “I was complicit in Sherlock’s abuse.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Greg, I assure you I most certainly was. I was not aware of the situation, it is true. Had I been, I would have put an immediate end to it and done whatever was necessary for my brother to feel acknowledged and safe. I thought at first, in comforting Ms Winter, I would find some degree of forgiveness for my own… ignorance. I told her she did the best she could. She was incapable of deducing what was occurring when she wasn’t present in the home.”

“Very true.”

“My situation is quite different, however. I was entirely capable of that action.”

“So you manage to both acknowledge you occasionally miss things completely and also argue you must have always known on some level— depending on whichever scenario makes you look worse.” Greg sighed. “He was Billy’s age, which makes you young yourself. You have a chance at arguing that you would be able to read that sort of thing accurately if it had happened now, after a lifetime of honing your skills— though even that is a stretch— but to say you should have picked up on it then? Especially if Sherlock was determined not to let you know? Well, that is so much of a stretch that I’d call it impossible.”

“But there is where you are missing vital information, Greg. I was more than merely unaware of whatever occured in my absence. I saw it, and I turned away.”

“You saw it happen?”

“And I did nothing.”

“There’s more to it.”

“Of course there is. But that is all that truly matters.”

“And that’s no story. You wanted to tell me your story.”

Mycroft smiled. “Very well then. Here is the situation in brief. We were at a wedding celebration for a relative of little consequence. Sherlock was at the bar, nursing his soft drink, when an older, female relative of ours joined him. I saw the conversation. I saw her attempt to gain his trust through offering him her alcoholic mix, which Sherlock refused. Had I sat next to him at this point, it would never have happened. But I was blinded by my own preconceived notions. Had it been a man doing the same, I am certain I would have been there in an instant, but she skirted round my suspicions. She seemed charming, intelligent, entertaining, vivacious...just what I thought Sherlock needed to help him through this social ordeal. I was...grateful to her. I saw...I saw her rest her hand upon his knee. I saw them both get up. Where on earth could they have both gone off to? Didn’t give that a thought.”

“And you found out when?”

“Two years ago.”

“He chose to let you know when he was ready, and—“

“No, not that either. I have eluded your attempt to assign me excuses and the best intentions at every turn. No, I figured it out. He confirmed it later, but he had no desire to confide it to me. Which likely means he was still ashamed to have been a victim, or...believed I was aware of what happened and had discounted it as inconsequential. And given that he is aware I was witness to it, the latter is a reasonable conclusion.”

“You should let him know you were horrified by what happened and that you hadn't been aware.”

“I have tried to convey that.”

“Then why not assume he understands? And believes you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Mycroft, I don't have magic words for you. I don’t have a way to climb inside Sherlock's head either. But I bet he has both of those things.”

“We don’t do that. We don’t...talk about these types of things. I know, you are about to say maybe we should start. But pushing it would make it even worse for him. I know he has spoken with John about it.

“Then perhaps he will discuss it with you again when he is ready. At least he has his partner to talk to.”

“Yes. I can speak from experience as to the benefits.”

Greg laughed. “Did I just get upgraded?”

“No.”

“Okay th—“

“No, I have seen you in that light for quite some time now. I just remained, uncertain as to how to... appropriately convey that sentiment. I believe I had previously spoke of a recurring theme…”

“I can help you express that sentiment. If you'd like. I’ve been giving the best way to do it a lot of thought as well.”

“By all means, show me some of your thoughts on the matter.”

Greg crossed over to Mycroft and wrapped his arms around him in a full embrace. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting. A trip to his bedroom, possibly; a series of increasingly expressive kisses, most definitely; but to simply be held? Mycroft’s posture stiffened. 

“Give it a minute. Just to feel it. And then I promise to give you your space if you want. You’ve been through so much. We all have. So. Try...just...try...to take a bit of comfort from me for that. Not expecting any sort of reaction in particular, so don't feel obligated. Just try to let it in, yeah? That I care.”

Mycroft stood there for a full minute, unchanged. Every bit as unyielding.

“That’s fine, too. This. I don’t want you to react in a way that feels like anything besides...you. How you want to feel right now.”

There was something about that phrasing, in the freedom to do whatever he wished. Just for a moment, he was turning up the road to the oculus at Runnymede, for no other purpose than because he wished to, watching the reflecting water and the open sky. The freedom to truly be himself. To be himself...and be with someone else. It had seemed impossible for the longest time. Greg lessened his grip to release him, but Mycroft felt his frame loosen, and before he even realised it he was resting his head upon Greg’s shoulder.

“You know, there is always someone worse off than you,” Greg said. “Except for one really unlucky son of a bitch of course, who has the worst life on the planet. Would hate to be him.” Greg gave him a kiss which lingered a bit too long to have been classified as entirely chaste. “Comparing your pain with someone else’s is pretty much guaranteed to make you as miserable as comparing your successes. Probably someone faster, stronger, smarter— though I can’t imagine anyone smarter than you. I bet there is someone, though.”

“My uncle, Rudy.”

“I’m afraid of him already.”

Mycroft smiled. “No need to be...anymore.”

“Point is, it doesn’t mean just because someone has more of something that you don't have any. Big mistake there. Don't ever say, ‘that’s not real pain’. That’s pain. There’s more than enough pain to go round.” Greg guided him to his bedroom. “More than enough pleasure to go round to and I’d say we are both overdue on that front.”


	20. Chapter 20

The conversation had left Mycroft feeling relieved and accepted, but still woefully inadequate. Yes, he was difficult. His expectations of himself were high, always have been, but his ability to express himself, to speak his feelings, remained frustratingly low. This had been a step. An important step, yes, but still just one of many before he would be what he considered a proper partner. The irony of the ruthless determination required to be the kind of man who allowed himself room for error was not lost on him.

“You’re fine with...my being…” Mycroft’s words drifted off. He wasn’t sure just what it was he was being. Not exactly reticent. He wanted this. Badly. “Not entirely… forthcoming... about my emotions.”

“Actually, I think you are. Not always with words, but your expressions and your actions are a pretty easy read. Like now, for instance. I know what that expression means.”

“You do, now?” Mycroft scoffed. He scarcely knew what he meant himself.

“Yeah, I think I do. And I agree. You _are_ lucky. Because I _am_ just that good at this. But feel free to correct me, if I should ever get it wrong.” Mycroft grabbed Greg by both shoulders and kissed him fiercely while Greg reached behind him, sliding his hands down Mycroft’s back and pulling him flush against him. “Words aren’t always necessary,” Greg breathed.

“Yes, at this point, I’d say actions speak far louder.” Mycroft leaned backward, just far enough to place a hand against Greg’s cock. “And...reactions.” 

They stumbled onto the bed together, each reaching for the other’s clothing, sometimes unintentionally interfering with the process in their combined enthusiasm. Mycroft was making a deliberate effort to be silent, to express his every thought with his body. He had put so much stock in finding the right words all his life. Carefully orchestrating them. Leaving no room for error. And perhaps, in this area, at least, he could find a way to let all those uncrafted words fall to the side. To just...be. To do. Even to simply _feel._

Greg, on the other hand, was having no issue whatsoever with expressing himself— a whole string of words spilling out about how each touch felt, and when he wanted adjustments and movement. Harder, softer, faster, slower. Mycroft felt reasonably confident he could have read what it was Greg wanted, but he didn’t have to. He was struck by the perfect balance they presented as a couple—Greg was just as vocal as Mycroft was silent—and even more struck by Greg’s ability to read him so well. This was unique. And. Good. Very good. 

Mycroft leaned back against the mattress and let Greg run his hands along his body to observe what they both seemed to enjoy most. Perhaps it would make for a less daring sexual experience—this time around, anyway. Mycroft wasn't anticipating anything besides the relatively straightforward act of touching each other— which was more than fine. Perhaps they could find other ways to communicate their more... difficult-to-voice...desires in the future. This was to be a soothing demonstration of how much Greg cared about him. And, Mycroft would do the same. 

He had resigned himself to this, quite happily, when Greg had removed his hand from Mycroft’s cock and said, “God, I want nothing more than to suck you off right now. No...not true. I want to flip you over and pin you down and lick at your hole until you are left with no choice but to rut against the mattress as I push my tongue into your arse. That’s what I want to do.”

Mycroft flushed and nodded.

“And when you are plenty wet, I want to reach into you and open you up so I can fuck you. Can I do that? Can I open you up and fuck you? I want to shove my cock so deep inside you…”

“Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Pl-.”

Greg didn’t waste a second and Mycroft was on his stomach before he could even finish the sentence. Greg was far stronger than Mycroft had anticipated. It made sense that he would be, really, once Mycroft gave it some thought, but he was giving everything considerably less thought now. 

Greg paused and gently turned Mycroft’s head to make eye contact. “You are amazing, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.”

“But…?”

“But what?”

“You’re thinking something, Greg. While I reluctantly concede that I do miss things, seldom do I see things that aren’t there.”

Greg smilled. “You’re right. I was just thinking about having fun with your, hesitation to express yourself. I was thinking we might try something.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Something falling under the category of sexual experimentation?”

“Yeah. That I might just keep at this,” he grabbed Mycroft’s arse, “until you told me to fuck you. Do you think we could try that? Just to, play with it, a bit?”

Mycroft was far from a virgin, but he had never been particularly skilled at requesting the specific things he enjoyed most, and had certainly never done anything quite so...well, his language was never so direct as that. But maybe he could break out of that pattern for once. In the name of personal growth. It had the potential to be a rather entertaining lesson. He smiled. “Yes, I certainly think we can try that.”

Greg grinned. “Good. I’ll just, go back to this until you tell me you need me to fuck you. And if you can’t do this, you can tell me to stop the game and I’ll fuck you anyway. I want to. God, I want to. But—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I can do this.”

Mycroft had said fuck countless times as a curse word, when things were fouled up beyond repair, when he injured himself, even out of pure annoyance and frustration...but never in a sexual context. But it was the same word, after all, despite the change of context. And he wasn’t bashful about sex. He’d had his fair share of it. Few acts would be entirely new to him, and this one certainly wasn’t. He was just, a bit more reserved when it came to... freely using language… that’s all. Clearly, Greg enjoyed this kind of thing, had been direct about it, and it was a simple enough request to accommodate.

Greg held him down once more, his upper body pushing against Mycroft’s thighs. Spreading him open. Working his way inside. Oh, it felt exquisite. The sensation itself was remarkable but the anticipation was sending him to far greater heights. Greg was correct; it didn’t take long before he was grinding himself against the sheet in search of contact. He wanted more. “Deeper,” he managed, and Greg grabbed him tightly and pushed himself into him. Mycroft groaned in response. He could ask for what he wanted. That was not an issue.

“Use your fingers.” Again, Greg responded immediately.

“I…” Mycroft needed this. Needed him. Greg was circling a finger around his entrance, then began pushing in and moving back again at a steady pace. Mycroft wanted Greg inside him so badly now. “T… take me.”

“Ask.”

“Take me...please!”

“The right way. You need…” he added another finger, “to ask me,” and hooked them upward, “to fuck you.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll…”

“Not fine. _Fuck.”_

“Oh my god, oh, fuck!” 

“Almost. It’s ‘Oh, fuck me, Greg’...” 

“You are… loving this… aren’t you?” 

“I absolutely am. You are so very proper, Mycroft, and I’d like to see that break, just a little. Just the,” a graze across the edge of his prostate and Mycroft convulsed and bit at the pillow, “tiniest bit.” He could play this game, yes, but on his own terms. Greg wanted this as badly as he did. He would ask, yes, but not in a helpless whimper. He was determined to hold out just a little more… but that was likely just what Greg wanted, the bastard, and what Mycroft wanted was to come. 

“Oh, fuck me, Greg, you fucking bastard! Fuck me now!” 

“As you wish. On your side, then.” 

Mycroft rolled to his side as Greg began to enter him in a slow stretch, his hand upon Mycroft’s hip to steady him until he was fully seated. Mycroft gasped as Greg moved his arm around to grasp Mycroft’s cock, kissing the back of his neck. “I’ve got you,” Greg said, as he moved his hand in time with his hips. “That was amazing. Thank you.” 

Mycroft would have said something back, perhaps ‘no, thank _you’,_ perhaps ‘hardly necessary’, but he found himself completely at a loss for words. Not even a simple, sarcastic huff to indicate Greg’s gentle teasing was understandable, given the circumstances, could escape his lips. Nothing but a string of thoroughly incomprehensible sounds. 

“I love you like this. Just as much as I love your composure and your precision. I love all that you are.” 

Mycroft would have liked to think it was the perfect combination of physical stimulation that had him spilling over Greg’s hand with an undignified shout, but perhaps, were he honest, it was also the words. He knew beyond a doubt that Greg meant them. That he had somehow found someone remarkable. 

“Can I… do you need time to—” 

“God, yes, keep going. I’m—” he was oversensitive, yes, but there was no way he intended to stop until Greg joined him. “I want that.” Mycroft reached behind blindly and pulled him closer. And perhaps it was that gesture that had been enough for Greg as well. 

They rested, catching their breath, still around and inside each other until Greg could no longer maintain his position. They faced each other and Greg shook his head vigorously. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just— exhausted. And thrilled. But also exhausted.” 

“I as well. On both counts. Go on. Rest.” 

Greg drifted to sleep, his arm resting atop Mycroft’s hip, as Mycroft watched him in silence. Once Greg’s breathing pattern changed, Mycroft whispered, “And I love what you have helped me to become.” 

“Heard that,” muttered Greg, sounding as if he were already half in a dreamstate. 

“Good,” said Mycroft, as he closed his eyes to let dreams claim him as well.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for No Smooth Knees Nor Colourless Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776775) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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